Not To Darkness
by thekindofbroken
Summary: He knows that helping her won't take it back, won't take back the tower, won't take back the death, won't take back the scar on her arm and the tattoo on his, but it eases his breath, if only a bit. He'd do anything to be able to breathe again.
1. Chapter 1

**NOTE: Since I've been a failure at writing lately, I thought I'd upload another old story of mine. Sorry that it's not new chapters of either of my fics in progress, but if you happen to, for some crazy reason, like my writing in general, at least it's something. Love you guys!**

* * *

**Draco**

"_Touch my mouth, and hold my tongue"_

It starts with a lie. He's lied a lot in his life, but this is the first time he's ever done it for someone else. This is the first time it's bad for him. The lie isn't a great one.

"I can't – I can't be sure," he'd choked out. So it was actually a terrible lie. He was sure. He'd known Potter for over six years. Of course he knew him, even if his face was all swollen up. Not to mention Granger and Weasley were right there. Anyone who'd ever known the trio would recognize them now and he'd spent the better part of six years tormenting them. He knew.

"But look at him carefully, look! Come closer!" His father urged him. There was something feverish in his voice. He knew that voice. That voice usually preceded horrific things.

"Draco, if we are the ones who hand Potter over to the Dark Lord, everything will be forgiv –"

"Now we won't be forgetting who actually caught him, I hope, Mr. Malfoy?" said Greyback menacingly.

"Of course not, of course not!" Draco knew his father was lying. He'd heard that voice a million times too. Greyback was nothing. A werewolf. That's even worse than a Mudblood, in some ways. That's not even human. A halfbreed. Lucius had told him that.

"What did you do to him? How did he get into this state?" Lucius asked, gesturing at Potter.

"That wasn't us."

"Looks more like a Stinging Jinx to me," his father had mused. He leaned closer to Potter. "There's something there. It could be the scar, stretched tight... Draco, come here, look properly! What do you think?"

He steeled himself. Did as he was told.

"I don't know," he told them, clinging to the fact that they couldn't call him out on it. Potter's face was fucked. He walked away then, back towards his mother, the only person in the room that didn't make him squirm.

"We had better be certain, Lucius," his mother said sharply. "Completely sure that it is Potter, before we summon the Dark Lord... They say this is his," she was fingering the wand they'd gotten off Potter. "but it does not resemble Ollivander's description... If we are mistaken, if we call the Dark Lord here for nothing... Remember what he did to Rowle and Dolohov?" He knew what she was thinking. She wanted the family safe. Well, his father had fucked that possibility away a long time ago, Draco thought bitterly. They all had death sentences hanging over their heads. It was only a matter of time. Draco found he didn't even mind so much anymore. He'd been numb for too long.

"What about the Mudblood, then?" Greyback suggested, pointing at the girl that Draco already knew with absolute certainty was Hermione Granger. He'd turned to look at her then. He wished he hadn't. The others had noticed and they'd thought to ask him.

"Wait," his mother said. "Yes – yes, she was in Madam Malkin's with Potter! I saw her picture in the _Prophet_! Look, Draco, isn't it the Granger girl?"

This lie was even worse. "I... maybe... yeah." He couldn't completely deny it. If they could prove it was her, they'd know he'd lied. Not being sure could be explained away for any number of reasons. He hadn't seen her in nearly a year. He had tried to look at her as little as possible in school, she _was_ a Mudblood after all. But claiming it wasn't her, that was a different matter. He'd spent six years at school with her. He _had _to admit that there was a resemblance. He didn't have an excuse for that. Because if they discovered that lie and it would be an unforgivable one. It would end with his death. He found that, suddenly, he _did_ have an objection to his own demise. Funny, he hadn't thought he cared. He'd even thought of doing it himself a few times. The only thing that stopped him was the thought of what it would do to his mother. But then, with the lie hanging in the air, he realized that there was some fight for survival left in him.

"But then, that's the Weasley boy!" his father said. "It's them, Potter's friends – Draco, look at him, isn't it Arthur Weasley's son, what's his name – ?"

"Yeah," he sighed, hating the word, hating everything. "It could be." He wanted to scream at them to stop. He wanted to be anywhere else, anyone else. He hated this. He hated them.

He met Granger's eyes and he hated her too, because those brown eyes were so expressive and she'd looked straight through him and he knew that _she_ knew that he didn't want this. Any of this. She saw him. And even then, even after everything, there was compassion there. It was something he had never felt he could give and had rarely been given.

He realized something in that moment. He desperately didn't want her die. He didn't want any of them to die. It was like a punch to the chest, that realization. It was the beginning of the end of who Draco Malfoy had always known himself to be. The lie didn't save her, at least, not from everything, but it begins to save him.

So it starts with a lie and builds from there, but he could never imagine where it ends up.


	2. Chapter 2

**Hermione**

"_I'll never be your chosen one"_

It starts without a choice. She can't keep running, that's all she knows. She physically _can't_ keep running and there's nowhere else to go. She's not sure what she's running to. She's not sure if she's about to seal her own death certificate with this choice that isn't a choice at all. All she knows, is that she has a better chance of surviving if she goes there, than she does if she keeps running.

She's not Harry. She can't fight all the time and, this time, she's done. She's finished. She's not Harry. She won't come back to life if she's caught and killed. He's a miracle. The chosen one. And she most certainly is not. He'd protect her, if he could. She knows this. He's tried. But it hasn't worked and she's running again. All her brains and cleverness can't save Hermione Granger this time.

The idea had come to her in a haze of pain and blood. She's dying. If she doesn't get help soon, she's already dead. And she's got nowhere left to go. Except... There is one place. There is one, single place that they would never look for her, that _she_ would never look for her. Probably because it would be suicidal to go there, but still... She remembers, after these past two years, she still remembers the look on his face and she thinks, it's better there than here. He owes her. For all those years of torment and he knows it. He knows he owes her.

It starts without a choice. The idea is insane. She goes anyway.


	3. Chapter 3

**Draco**

"_I'll be home, safe and tucked away"_

It's been two years and the nightmares are as bad as ever. There are only two and they are his constant companion. The first takes place in his home. Bellatrix is gleeful, and Hermione Granger is screaming. He's watching the blood drip down her arm. He can hear Weasley yelling himself hoarse for her.

In the dream, he can't move. It's as if someone has frozen his feet to the floor. It's not so different from how he'd felt at the time that it actually occurred. Worst of all, he can't stop looking. As much as he wants to turn away, all he can do is watch Hermione Granger scream and fight and still be every brave thing he is not.

Her face, pained and defiant, is the face that haunts him. Out of everything he's seen, she stays with him. He imagines that has to do with the guilt. He'd been cruel to her in school, had _wanted_ to see her hurt... or, at least, he'd thought he had, but watching her there, he certainly didn't want that. He could have done something. And yet... he couldn't have, not if he wanted to survive. Once again, he chose himself over others. He chose to be a coward.

He's come to terms with what he is. No one expects heroics out of him, and they're not going to get it. He may be a coward, but he's a survivor. No one can deny that, either. No one expects anything of him, and he likes it that way.

The second nightmare revolves around two things, his aunt Bellatrix, and the tower. He hasn't seen his aunt since the end of the war, since she'd slipped from the furious grasp of that Weasley woman and disappeared. But he sees her in his dreams. She's on the tower with him and Dumbledore and there's no Snape there to save him. He's fucked, whatever choice he makes. He never gets a chance to choose, always wakes before he does anything.

"She won't come here," he mutters to himself, trying to convince himself. The Malfoy Manor is starting to regain some of it's former grandeur. It had fallen into disrepair when the death eaters had been living there. Since the demise of The Dark Lord and the rounding up of his followers, it had seemed to heal. He imagines it has something to do with the fact that the house elves are no longer afraid to come out and do their job. There's no one left to punish them.

His father is in Azkaban awaiting the dementors kiss and Draco can only think it's good riddance. He has no love left for his father. His mother passes through the halls like a ghost, appearing for meals and disappearing again. If he was braver, better, someone else, he'd try to comfort her, but he's Draco Malfoy and so he leaves her be. She hardly speaks, but the silence is better than her sad, disjointed thoughts that occasionally spill from her lips. He's not sure if she misses his father, or if some other part of her broke during the war. He doesn't ask. He doesn't want to know.

He doesn't need anything, anyway. He's the head of the Malfoy house now, and he has enough gold to live comfortably 10 times over. He doesn't need a job. He doesn't need friends. He doesn't need parents. He doesn't need anything. And, if he's being totally honest with himself, which he rarely is, he doesn't deserve any of it, anyhow.

He can't say he's expecting it when, on a beautiful summer's eve, a bloody, battered, and dying Hermione Granger appears on his doorstep. She might have died out there if he'd ignored the doorbell, as he usually did. But he opens the door.

She stands there, teetering on her feet, while he stares at her in complete astonishment. Her eyes are glossed over and weak.

"You owe me," she breathes, and collapses. He catches her out of instinct, still wondering if this is possibly a new addition to his collection of nightmares. He's useless for a moment, holding her trembling form up, doing nothing.

Her eyelids flutter and she manages one last word. "Please."


	4. Chapter 4

**Hermione**

"_Well, you can't tempt me, if I don't see the day"_

She wakes up in a room wallpapered in emerald green silk, so he hadn't left her to die. She doesn't know whether or not that surprises her. She remembers his eyes, looking at her, the last time she'd been here, screaming, and she decides she's not surprised.

She turns her head to the side and realizes he's there. He's sitting in an armchair next to her bed, a huge king sized bed made from solid, dark, gaboon ebony. Even in this state, she can't help but notice the luxury of the room. Only Hermione Granger would note the type of wood the furniture is made out of after waking from a near death experience.

He's not looking at her, and she imagines he's unaware she's woken. She hasn't seen him since the end of the war, and she can't help but study him now. He's taller and broader than he was in school. Lean and yet definitely muscled. That's new. He'd always been rather thin when she'd known him, almost painfully so. His face is much the same, however, still aristocratic, still nearly perfect, and yet, still with dark circles under his eyes. He looks haunted. He has the same white-blond hair, the same silvery eyes, the same perfect bone structure, but there's something less about him. There's no arrogance in his face, no amused twitch in his lips, no confidence.

Perhaps most surprising, is his clothing choice. Muggle clothes. And not expensive muggle clothes. Worn jeans, a t-shirt that's a little small and close to falling apart, no shoes at all. His hair is disheveled too. He's a little messy, she realizes, which is the complete opposite of how she's ever seen him. It's so different from his slicked back hair, the buttoned up clothes, the shiny shoes. It's almost like looking at a different person. The dark mark stands out, vivid and angry looking on his arm.

He seems to sense her gaze and turns to look at her. Nothing shows in his face. Nothing. He almost looks bored.

"So, you didn't let me die," she says, internally cringing at her own words. She hadn't thought past basic survival. What does she say to him now?

"No." His silver eyes are impenetrable.

"Well, uh, thanks, I guess."

He doesn't answer, just continues to look at her, exhaustion in every line of his body.

"Not how you expected to spend your weekend, I guess," she babbles. God, she needs to just shut up.

"What are you doing here?" There's no emotion in the voice, either.

She knows she has to tell him, after all, she started all this, but she doesn't know how to begin to explain. She's never had a decent conversation with Draco Malfoy before. And she's certainly never found herself at his mercy.

"I didn't have anywhere else to go," she tells him softly. "I still don't."

"Hermione Granger didn't have anywhere else to go," Malfoy echos her with incredulity. It's the first emotion she's heard from him. But it's better than it might have been. She can imagine the same sentence falling from his lips with disdain. That's what she would have expected.

"Yes."

"And Potter wasn't an option because...?" There it is, a little bit of the old Malfoy. It almost makes her smile. It's not that she misses him, it's that she finds it disconcerting that he seems so empty, so broken.

"I _was_ at Harry's. She found me."

"Who did?"

She swallows, shuddering at the thought. "Bellatrix."

Malfoy's flinch is so small she almost misses it, but it's there. His eyes have darkened. He's clearly as terrified of his aunt as she is. The look on his face is enough to make her wonder if her confession will cause him to kick her out, injuries and all.

"She keeps finding me," she can't stop herself from telling him. " I just thought... I mean, this is the last place she'd look."

He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes. She waits for him to demand her departure. She steels herself. He stands up, rubs his hands on his jeans, and grimaces.

"There's more healing potion on the bedside table. I think I got the worst of your wounds, but I'm not exactly the most practiced healer. Helping people isn't exactly death eater specialty," he says wryly, his lips quirking in an unamused smile. "It'll probably make you sleepy again."

He turns away from her, towards the door.

"I can stay?" she can't help the surprise and disbelief that colors her voice. He doesn't turn back around.

"Yes." And then he's gone. She swallows the potion he'd pointed out. It burns her throat on the way down and she instantly feels her eyelids grow heavy. A pleasant numbness fills her body. He's right, she's terribly sleepy. She falls into darkness.

* * *

It's the sound of a dresser drawer closing that wakes her. She blinks her eyes open to see Malfoy rifling through the dresser across the room. He surfaces with what looks like a bundle of clothes, turns, and sees she's awake.

"Sorry," he murmurs, "just had to grab something." The simple statement sends her brain whirling in about a hundred different directions. Did Malfoy just apologize to _her_? But only one thing makes it to her mouth.

"Is this your room?"

He stares at her with blank eyes for what feels like ages before... "Yes."

"Why am I...?" she doesn't know how to finish the question.

He shrugs and she thinks he won't answer, but after several moments, he does. "There's only two furnished bedrooms in the house," he tells her. "The other is my mothers."

"Why?" She berates herself for her intrusive questions. He could still kick her out at any time and there she goes prying into his personal life.

"I threw it all out."

"What? Why would you do that?" She seriously needs to work on that.

He shifts uncomfortably. "There was a lot of blood... I mean, from when they were here."

She doesn't need to ask him who "they" are. Death Eaters. "Oh."

"I replaced the potion," he tells her suddenly, changing the subject. "I think two or three more draughts should do it. You can't eat while you're on it." He makes his way towards the door. She watches him. He's still graceful, after everything.

"Malfoy," she says. He pauses at the door. She hadn't meant to call out to him, only it had happened anyway.

"Thanks," she says, finally. She _is_ thankful, even if she doesn't entirely trust this, trust him.

He shrugs, doesn't answer.


	5. Chapter 5

**Draco**

"_The pull on my flesh was just too strong"_

He doesn't know what he's doing. When she'd arrived on his doorstep, begging for help, he'd reacted. He'd known when he was seventeen years old that he hadn't wanted her to die. He hadn't been about to watch it happen now.

He hadn't thought past saving her life. And now she's asleep in his bed and he has no idea what the fuck he's supposed to do next. This isn't simple. She isn't family. She isn't a friend. She's a girl who he'd tormented growing up and then stood back and watched being tortured. She's a girl who looks back at him in his nightmares. She's Harry fucking Potter's best friend.

He grabs a bottle of scotch and drops onto the sofa in the study. It's one of the only furnished rooms in the manor. All that's left is the kitchen, two bedrooms, the study, the library, and the bathrooms, of course. Everything else he'd burned. It was stained and he couldn't bear to look at it.

Of course, for the first time, this is a problem. He doesn't fancy sleeping on the expensive, but not particularly comfortable, sofa for the next... how long is it going to be, anyhow? What does she want from him? What does she expect from him? She's right, this is the last place his aunt would think to look for her, but how long does she imagine she'll stay? A week? A month? A year? Until Bellatrix is caught by aurors? That could be never.

It's his house now, but who is he to say how long she can stay? He feels like he doesn't deserve a say in anything anymore. He downs more alcohol. At least this still works the same. Scotch doesn't discriminate. It gets you drunk just the same. He decides it doesn't matter. He doesn't know what's going to happen and he decides he doesn't care. Day by day, that's the only way to live for him anymore. This isn't any different.

His eyes drift closed, but he fights to stay awake. With sleep comes the nightmares. He's sick of nightmares. Maybe now that he's tried to help her, she'll stop haunting him. He doubts it, but a boy can dream, can't he?

"Malfoy?"

His eyes snap open and he sits up sharply. She's standing gingerly in the doorway, barefoot and in the pale blue silk robe he'd fished out from his mother's closet. Her clothes had been unsalvageable. She looks pale, a little unsteady. Even so, he notes, she's filled out rather well. She's certainly more woman than girl. He blames this observation on the alcohol.

"You shouldn't be up," he tells her, the first words that come to his mind.

"I just... Can I have another potion? I woke up and I couldn't go back to sleep." She looks so very delicate and vulnerable standing there, he feels a sudden, fierce urge to protect her, keep her safe. His aunt destroys things, but she can't have her.

He finds himself confused with his own thoughts. Had he thought that? That's not him. He doesn't protect anything but himself. Everything seems jumbled in his head. The alcohol. Just the alcohol.

"Malfoy?"

He groans and drags himself off the sofa, stiff and drunk enough to wobble. "There's more in the kitchen. I'll get it."

"Are you drunk?"

He feels a broad grin stretch across his face. "Tremendously."

She rolls her eyes. "Brilliant."

He slips past her and down the hallway. He can hear her soft footsteps behind him. He takes a turn into his kitchen and scoops up her next dose of potion, nearly spilling some as he sways. He turns around and hands it to her.

"You really shouldn't be out of bed."

"I'm feeling a lot better, actually," she says, downing it.

"You can stay," he blurts out. Damn. The scotch has definitely loosened his lips.

"What?"

"For as long as you need to," he clarifies. "She won't find you here."

She smiles a soft smile, her eyes are so warm. It makes him uncomfortable, someone looking at him with such warmth. He's not used to it. He's not sure he likes it.

"Thanks, but I'll take you seriously if you repeat that when you're sober."

He grimaces at her. "Being sober is overrated." Though, considering how strangely, horribly open he's feeling, being drunk may be overrated too.

"Yes, well, just the same..." she trails off and he follows her line of sight. He's surprised she hasn't looked sooner. It says a lot about him, the tattoo on his arm.

"Do you have a question about it?" He finds himself asking.

She starts, cheeks flaring up with embarrassment. He assumes she hadn't meant to stare.

"Um. No. Sorry."

"Ha. You're lying." He doesn't know what he's doing. He doesn't _want_ to talk about it. Does he?

"It's just..." Her fingers stretch out and brush the edge of the tattoo lightly. His heart stops. How long has it been since someone touched him? A long time. How long has it been since that touch had been gentle? He can't remember. Has anyone ever been gentle with him? His mother? Maybe when he was little. Then again, it's partially his fault. Since when has _he _been gentle with anyone? The answer is the same, never that he can remember. She pulls her hand back, quickly, flushing further. She probably hadn't meant to do that either. Come to think of it, she must be in her own sort of haze if that potion is kicking in properly. He should get her back to bed before she passes out, but she speaks and he forgets about that.

"I just kind of didn't believe it. I mean, I knew, I just didn't..."

In his drunken mindset he can't quite understand. "Why not?" Didn't everyone see it coming? No. Not everyone, he reminds himself. _He_ hadn't. He'd always thought, somewhere deep and secret inside himself, that it would never come to that. He'd been an idiot, as well as a coward.

"I don't know. You were always just..." He can tell she's struggling with words. That'll be the potion. "I felt sorry for you."

He flinches. He hates that, but he can't find any anger. He's pathetic; he's thought it himself. He can't exactly be angry at her for agreeing.

"I mean, you had everything, but it was just things. You didn't have anyone." She looks horrified as soon as she says it. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't..." He cringes internally. He had known he was pathetic, yes, he just hadn't realized he was also transparent. She's right about him. He hadn't had anyone. He'd spent his whole life trying to convince himself he didn't need it. One more thing to add to the list of why Draco Malfoy was a complete and utter fuck up. He's feeling suddenly quite sober.

She wobbles slightly. He can see her eyelids drooping. Shit. He forgot about the potion for a moment.

"Come on," he takes her arm. "You need to get back to bed before I have to carry you."

She follows him quietly, staring at the floor. He wonders what she's thinking. Maybe about more of his flaws. It's a long list. He should know; he's spent plenty of time working on it. He deposits her at the door of his bedroom.

"I'm sorry," she blurts out, looking up at him with those compassionate brown eyes.

"For what?" He asks, hoping she won't try to start another conversation about him, his childhood, his feelings, or being a death eater.

"For everything I said. I don't know why..." She trails off, yet again.

"It's fine, just go to bed," he tells her quickly.  
She stares at him. "Why are you being nice to me?" Her brow is crinkled in confusion.

"Haven't you heard? I don't give a fuck."

"About what?"

His throat aches, but he tells the lie anyway. "About anything." Hell, it's almost true.


	6. Chapter 6

**Hermione**

"_stifled the choice"_

The first thing she thinks when she wakes up is _"What the hell did I say last night?"_ It's not really a question. She remembers. She just wishes it wasn't true. She knows, logically, she couldn't help herself. Whatever is in the potion makes her drowsy and uninhibited. Malfoy had been drunk, though, so maybe _he_ doesn't remember.

She's genuinely confused with him. He's so different from how she remembers. She can't reconcile who he was with who he is. It doesn't help that, while most of the changes seem to be for the better, they also make her sad. She'd always wished he would be nicer, and he _is_, but he also seems lost. He certainly doesn't seem happy.

Maybe a tiny, tiny, piece of her misses his unshakable arrogance. Just a little. The door swings open and there he is.

"Hi," she says, feeling a fresh wave of humiliation. Had she really touched his dark mark? God, she's lucky he didn't curse her.

He crosses the room and sits down in the armchair next to the bed. He's carrying something in a glass jar.

"What's that?"

He looks at her with his silver eyes and she wishes for the millionth time that she could read his face, but he's completely closed off.

"You had some pretty bad injuries on your upper body. When you were first here, I used this salve. You really need another coat."

"Oh." She sits up in the bed and swings her legs around so she's facing him. "Okay, she reaches for it, but he pulls his hand back.

"You won't be able to do it yourself. Most of them, you can't reach."

He looks at her expectantly. Is he getting at what she thinks he's getting at? There's no way she's disrobing in front of him. He raises his eyebrows.

"You can't be serious."

"I'm not going to do anything," he tells her calmly.

She can tell her face is flaming red. "I didn't think you were, I just don't want you to _see_."

He sighs. "I'm not a little kid. It's not like you have anything I haven't seen before. Besides, they're on your back, so it's not like you're really exposing yourself."

She doesn't care. She still doesn't want to. And that's not the point. He seems to see her answer in her face.

"Look, how do you think you got out of your clothes and into that robe? I'm the only one here helping you. It's fine. I won't stare at you, or judge you, or whatever it is you're concerned about. I'm just trying to help you."

Oh, God. She hadn't thought about what had happened to her clothes. How could she have been so stupid? That's something she should have thought of. Grow up, she tells herself. You're too old to be so easily embarrassed; You can do this. He's been taking care of you and you're acting like a child.

"Fine." She gives in and turns her back to him, but she's sure she's still blushing as she undoes the tie at her waist and shrugs out of the top of the robe. She keeps it wrapped tightly around her waist. She can't look at Malfoy, so she gasps with surprise when she feels his hand brush against her side. It's not like he can really see anything, so she shouldn't care that much, she reminds herself, arms crossed across her chest.

"Relax," he murmurs, and she feels something cool and pasty stick to her skin. He rubs in the salve gently. His hands move slowly and surely across her skin. She closes her eyes, trying not to feel embarrassed. He's just helping her.

"Turn," his voice shocks her out of her thoughts.

"What?"

"Turn, a little. I can't see the edge of this one."

"Oh." She does as she's told and his hands move back to her skin. It scares her that she doesn't absolutely hate it. His hands feel... nice. She shouldn't be thinking that. Goosebumps break out on her skin, as if this whole thing wasn't embarrassing enough.

"Are you cold?"

No. "A little," she lies.

"Sorry, almost done." She finds his words guiltily disappointing. She glances over her shoulder and her eyes meet his silver ones. For the first time, she can see something in them, though she has difficulty deciphering it. Is that concern? Then his hands are gone from her. She feels their loss more acutely than she should. She really is cold now.

"You can get dressed," he tells her. She blushes and pulls the robe back up. Silence falls. She feels the need to fill it with something, with anything.

"This is gaboon ebony, isn't it?" she asks, touching the bed frame.

He looks at her blankly.

"It's obscenely expensive," she tells him. "And generally impossible to find in large pieces of furniture such as this, due to it's rarity."

"Oh, well, in that case, probably," he answers.

"Hhhmm... If we're talking obscenely expensive wood, I'm partial to agarwood. It's lighter."

He's staring at her again. She's babbling like an idiot and she knows it.

"Sorry, I forgot you're not..." she bites off the end of her sentence, cursing herself.

"I'm not what?"

Well, she might as well finish now. "My friend." He doesn't react visibly. She hates that, how he's gotten so good at hiding himself.

He shrugs. "I don't mind." His words encourage her. She's been dying to ask...

"Can I ask you something?"

"I suppose."

"What do you do? I mean, all day, in this manor, just...?"

"Absolutely nothing."

She raises her eyebrows at him. "And you don't go out?"

"No."

"Aren't you bored?" Maybe pushing him isn't such a good idea, she reminds herself. This is Draco Malfoy, after all.

He flashes her a smile and for just one fleeting instant, that confident, arrogant boy is back. "Tremendously," he tells her, echoing his answer from the night before. "Why do you think I'm being so lovely to you?"

She's not sure if he's joking or not. He _has_ been surprisingly decent to her, kind, in fact. She ignores the second half of his comment.

"So why don't you...?"

He sobers instantly. "They're out there."

"Who?" She can't imagine who can make Malfoy look so horribly haunted now that the death eaters are locked up. Or, at least, most of them. Besides, they all know where he lives.

"Everyone else." His answer shakes her. Is he really that uncomfortable with the rest of the wizarding world? Something else clicks in her mind.

"Is that why you're...?" she gestures at his wardrobe.

"The muggle world is easier. No one knows me."

Hermione can't help the giggle that escapes her. "Who would've thought, Draco Malfoy prefers muggle London." As soon as she says it, she regrets it. She's sure that he'll snap at her, but when she glances his way he doesn't look angry. In fact, he looks almost as if he's smiling, just a ghost of the expression on his lips.

He shrugs again. "Who would have thought..." He looks completely lost to the world in that moment and it steals her breath. Who is Draco Malfoy? She's always thought she knew, but this person she's spent the last twenty four hours with is a stranger. He's so alternately guarded and then recklessly honest.

"Are you okay?" she can't help but ask.

"I'm fine."

She makes a face at him. "Fine isn't really an answer. Are you good?"

His face lights up in a strangely dark manner, a smirk twisting his features. He looks so much more like the boy she knew in that moment. "You should know better than to ask me that," he says.

"Why?"

"Because I'm Draco Malfoy. I haven't been _good_ a single day in my life," he drawls, looking almost as cocky as he used to. For some reason, this makes her smile.

"That's _not_ what I meant," she chides him.

"Hey, who was the cleverest witch in our year? You should have known better than to ask like that." Did he just call her clever? She can't quite wrap her mind around that. If he thinks any more about his words, she can't tell. He stands up, crossing the room back towards his dresser and setting the glass jar on top. And then, without any ceremony, as if it's not a big deal at all, as if she's not just behind him, he strips his t-shirt off, using it as a hand towel to clean the salve from his hands.

She stares at his back in a mixture of disbelief and awe. He's toned. Like really, beautifully toned. He rifles through the drawers, produces another t-shirt, and turns back around. Like a complete moron, she can't seem to help her wandering eyes, which skirt down his chest, over well defined abs, and follow the sharp V that disappears under the waistband of his low hanging jeans, resting there. Holy...

She snaps out of it, her eyes going to his face and... His eyebrows are raised, a treacherous and practically gleeful smirk on his lips. Well, there's the arrogance she'd missed. She's suddenly not so sure she misses it after all.

"Sorry," she mumbles, blushing furiously and looking away. She thinks she hears him chuckling slightly, but refuses to look back at him. She's not sure where her disobedient eyes might end up.

"I'm clothed," he informs her, amusement in his voice. "I have a lot of time to work out now that I'm in this house by myself all day."

"Right." She hopes she doesn't sound as mortified as she is. It makes it worse that he's clearly entertained by her discomfort. She glances back at him and he is, indeed, fully clothed.

"Speaking of clothes," she says, hoping to draw attention elsewhere. "I should probably go back to Harry's and get some of mine."

He snorts. "Yeah, that's a good way to get yourself killed. Did I call you clever earlier? Because I take that back. If she found you there once, she's sure to have tabs on the place. Speaking of which, why the fuck is she after you?"

"I don't know, exactly," Hermione answers, staring at the emerald silk sheets. "She seems to take my existence as a personal insult. I don't know when you last saw her, but, if it's possible, she's gone even more insane." She can't help the shiver that snakes its way down her spine.

"And she didn't try to kill Potter?" Malfoy asks incredulously.

"Oh, she tried..." she trails off, remembering the manic look on Bellatrix's face. "She just doesn't hunt him."

"Well, fuck going back to Potter's, then."

"I need something to wear. I'm not going to prance around in this forever," she snaps, running her fingers over the silk robe which she's starting to realize is very, very thin.

"Fine." he turns back to the dresser and scoops up something on top. He tosses it at her and she catches it out of pure instinct. It's a magazine, she realizes, for witch's robes. Actually, it's not just robes, it's anything a girl could want. Everything in it looks stunningly expensive.

"My mother has a subscription," he explains. "I haven't bothered to cancel it. She doesn't even look at them anymore."

"I can't afford this stuff." It's true. She's not poor, but she certainly isn't about to spend that much money on clothing.

"I wasn't expecting you to pay for it."

"I don't need you to buy me things," she snaps. She doesn't know why the prospect bothers her so much. She's never liked people giving her things for free, but it feels especially odd from Malfoy. There's something intimate about it.

"As you have so kindly pointed out, I have furniture made from gaboon ebony. Do you really think anything you pick out of there is going to so much as scratch the surface of the Malfoy fortune? You could order everything in there and I wouldn't even notice. Cost is irrelevant."

He has a point. He clearly has more money than he knows what to do with. Still, her pride resists. This is Draco Malfoy. She should hate him on principle and yet... She can't. She remembers his hands across her skin and the look in his eyes that might have been concern.

"Fine. I'll pick a few things out."

She can see he's pleased he's won. "Brilliant. Now, I don't know about you, but I'm famished."


	7. Chapter 7

**Draco**

"_and the air in my lungs"_

Sometimes he feels like he's outside of himself, with no control over his own actions. He's felt like that for hours now. He's honestly not sure how he'd gotten here, sitting across his kitchen table from Hermione Granger, watching her devour the pile of french toast he'd produced. He's become a pretty good cook in the last two years, if he says so himself. It had given him something to do, something to pass the time.

Of course, he'd never thought he'd be cooking anything for _her_. He never thought he'd be doing _anything_ for her. But here he is and he certainly has been. And why not? He asks himself. He's not anyone anymore, a ghost of who they both remembered. He doesn't want to go back to that, anyhow. He doesn't know what he wants. He doesn't know himself.

He traces the pattern in the wood of the table with his finger. Who is he? No one, he supposes. What does he stand for? Nothing, not anymore. Being on a side, the losing one, at that, that's how he'd gotten here. And now? He couldn't care less who her parents are or what sort of blood is in her veins. He couldn't care less what house she was in at Hogwarts. He couldn't care less about the rest of the world and what they thought. Caring about those things, that's what had destroyed him and left him alone, disgraced, a pariah, with no one and nothing.

His family, his name, his money, his expectations, that's what had caused him to be where he sits now. Well, that and his own cowardice. He knows this. He breathes this truth in daily. He hates himself for it. He hates his father for it. He hates the rest of the world for it. And sitting across from him at his kitchen table is the embodiment of his own failure, the guilt that sits heavy on his chest and crushes his lungs. He hates her for it too.

He knows that helping her won't take it back, won't take back the tower, won't take back the death, won't take back the scar on her arm and the tattoo on his, but it eases his breath, if only a bit. He'd do anything to be able to breathe again.

"What are you thinking about?"

His head jerks up to look at her. She's finished the french toast. He wonders how long she's been staring at him, breaking him apart. He can't stand those eyes, the way they crack him into little pieces.

"Nothing."

"I don't believe you," she tells him matter-of-factly.

He frowns at her. "You overestimate my cognitive ability," he shoots back. No way he's going to tell her about the guilt and the crushing weight on his lungs. No way he's going to spell out his regrets, her being a major one.

She rolls her eyes. "You forget, I was the cleverest witch in our year. And I'm clever enough to know that you've _always_ been much cleverer than you let on."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that I know you were second in our class."

"What? I was not," he argues. No one had ever told _him_ that.

"Yes, you were. McGonagall told me when I was having some trouble with stuff sixth year. I think she thought it might motivate me to stay on top of things, you know."

"You had trouble in sixth year?" He finds that infinitely more interesting than where he'd ranked in school. He hadn't noticed her having trouble. Though, looking back, he's not surprised. He had been having his own trouble sixth year.

"A bit," she answers almost timidly. He wonders if she's trying to decide whether or not to talk about it.

"Why?"

She frowns, studying him closely. He tries to imagine what she's looking for. Malice? Sarcasm? Does she think he's looking for weaknesses? Has she not noticed that he's much too empty to try to hurt anyone?

"Ron and Lavender got together," she says at last.

For an instant, he's thrown. Who the hell is Lavender? He can't place the name, but then the implication in her words sink in. Oh. She'd been upset over Ron Weasley's choice of girlfriend, namely, that it wasn't her.

"What ever happened to the Weasel?" He asks, almost relieved that he feels annoyed. He hasn't felt much of anything but self hatred for quite some time. Finding his dislike of Ronald Weasley perfectly intact is close to pleasant.

"_Ron_ is fine," she tells him, looking away. The way she says it implies that he may be fine, but something between them clearly isn't.

"Still pining after him?" he guesses. It comes out a little harsher than he'd meant. He's not _trying_ to hurt her; he just doesn't have much experience with gentle. Fuck, he's Draco Malfoy. He's never _wanted _to be gentle.

She gives him a sharp look. "No. I broke up with _him_, thank you very much."

"I didn't even know you dated him," he tells her honestly.

"For a year and half." Her voice has taken on a dreamy quality. "His mom thought we were going to get married. I felt so guilty hurting her. She never really got over Fred."

He finds himself wishing he knew who the fuck Fred was. He's not sure what to say to something like that. It's really none of his business and now he can't even respond properly.

She seems to notice his confusion. "Fred was one of the twins. He died in the battle of Hogwarts."

Oh. There's not much to say to that either. Draco was on the wrong side however you looked at it. He opts for staying silent.

"What about you?" she prompts, breaking the heavy silence.

"What about me?"

"Well, as little as you go out, I still find it hard to imagine you haven't been celibate for two years. You must have dated someone."

He's half surprised she's asking. Why does she even care? But it's a lot easier to talk about that than the battle of Hogwarts, because unlike that, it doesn't mean anything at all to him.

"Dated is probably a generous word," he admits. He doesn't add that "shagged" would better describe it.

"Mother wanted me to marry Astoria Greengrass, but I refused." He's not sure why he's just told her that. He doesn't like sharing. Keeping your mouth shut keeps you safe; he knows this very well. Something about her is compelling. Ever since she's woken up he's found himself crashing through moments of vulnerable honesty or tightlipped secretiveness. How can he want both?

"Why?" she looks genuinely surprised.

"Because I didn't want to marry her."

She lets out a huffy sigh. "Obviously. I meant why didn't you want to marry her? She's beautiful."

The true answer is out of his mouth before he can stop it. "My parents married for social standing rather than love. You can see how well that turned out." Shit. He hadn't meant to say that. He'd never said that to anyone. It seems he's back to being honest to a fault. He's been alone too long, with no one to talk to. He's out of practice lying. He's out of practice with human interaction in general.

He doesn't understand the look she's giving him and he's not sure he wants to. He doesn't want sympathy. And he certainly doesn't want pity. He may not have a very clear idea of who he is, but someone looking for pity is _not_ it.

"Anyhow, I'm not sure I really want to get married. I can't exactly imagine raising children."

She shrugs. "Not everyone wants kids." He's glad she lets the subject drop. The more he has to talk about his personal life, the more painfully obvious his social destruction becomes.

"I have to ask you a serious question," he tells her.

"Okay?" she looks at him apprehensively.

"Does Potter know you're here? Or the Weasel? Or anyone for that matter?"

For an instant, she looks wary, and he wonders if she's thinking how admitting that no one knows where she is might end badly for her, that he'd hurt her. He's finds that prospect irritating, but doesn't let it show; she could be hesitating for other reasons.

"No. No one knows."

"Good. The less people who know, the safer it is. My aunt has no reason to come here, she knows she would not be welcomed. And it's definitely not somewhere she would ever imagine to look for you, but that doesn't mean you shouldn't be careful."

"Yes, I know," she says softly, but her brow is furrowed. "But I really should let Harry know, he'll want to know I'm safe and he can make arrangements for... you know, when I leave."

He frowns at her. What the fuck is she on about? "I told you, you can stay as long as you need, until it's safe."

"You were drunk when you said that."

"So? I meant it. I'm saying it again now."

She bites her lip, looks up at him curiously. "Why would you do that, though?"

He shrugs. "I have a giant empty house, I'm by myself all the time, and you really have to ask that question?" It's most of the truth. He doesn't mention the guilt and the dreams.

"But it's _me_. We've never exactly gotten along." She's pushing, digging for the real reason. It's just like her. If the truth is what it'll take, he supposes he'll just have to give it to her.

"Maybe I feel guilty. You know, about all of it, but mostly about..." he gestures to her arm where the scarred word "mudblood" stands out against her skin.

She looks confused. "Why would you feel guilty about that? You didn't tell them who we were. I know you knew that was Harry. And you certainly knew it was me."

He can't stand to look at those brown eyes. "I should have done something."

"Like what?"  
"I don't know. Something. But the worst part is knowing that I probably wouldn't again. When it comes down to it, I'm selfish. I care more about what happens to me than anyone else." The words are harsh and they feel good. It feels good to voice his self hatred out loud, normally it stews in his head. He doesn't usually have someone to listen to his self abuse. Somewhere, some part of him is screaming at his violent honesty. What is he doing? What is he saying?

"Maybe." She looks thoughtful. "But I don't blame you. We never gave you any reason to want to die for us."

He will never understand her, he thinks. How could she possibly not blame him for standing by while she was tortured? He certainly blames himself. He can't imagine she would have done the same if the roles were reversed. Not someone noble, like her.

He shakes his head. "Well, it's your answer. That's why."

"Okay," she says slowly, giving him a strange look. "But I do need to _talk_ to Harry. He should know I'm alive and safe."

He wants to argue, but he doesn't protect people. That's not him. So he just says something snarky to cover his own inability to express concern.

"Your funeral. There's floo powder by the fire."

She rolls her eyes and crosses to the fire. "Give me a minute?"

"It's _my_ house," he complains, but only out of the self defensive instinct roaring in him, to be sarcastic and moody and untouchable. He doesn't want to be so obviously vulnerable. He's back to needing his armor, his indifference, his lies.

She rolls her eyes again and gives him a pointed look. He stands up then, holding his hands up in surrender and leaves the room. Truth be told, it's a relief. He'd lost his head again and said way too much. She seems to have that effect on him. He hopes it's one that fades over time. The last thing he needs is to spend the next few weeks spilling his guts.


	8. Chapter 8

**Hermione**

"_Better not to breathe, than to breathe a lie."_

Harry is happy to see her. Or, her head, actually. She'd thought it too dangerous to completely floo to Harry's. She needs to be able to retreat quickly if Bellatrix shows. Harry tries to assure her that he's put up extra defenses and it's completely safe, but she can still feel the sting of her wounds and she doesn't _feel_ safe.

Harry is less happy when he finds out where she is.

"What were you thinking, Hermione?" She can see the judgement in his eyes.

"I was thinking that she would never ever look for me here."

Harry frowns at that, but can't argue. It's simply the truth. Of places to hide from Bellatrix Lestrange, Hermione's hit the jackpot.

"But what about Malfoy?" Harry's voice lowers slightly, like he's the one with his head in the fire and not the other way around.

"It's fine. He's fine. Well, I mean, _he's_ not fine, but I am. He's different, Harry. It's like he's just too tired or depressed or something to try anymore."

"Try what?"

She struggles for what she means. "I think to try to be the boy that his father wanted. Or maybe it's more than that. He's just... messed up. But he's nicer. Is that strange?"

"This whole thing is strange," Harry says. "And I still don't like it. He's a death eater."

"He _was_ a death eater. And we both know he didn't have much choice in the matter."

"He _bragged_ about it. I heard him."

"He bragged about everything in school, Harry. Look, Malfoy won't be a problem. He's sorry for what he did. I know it."

"Yeah, sure." Harry is clearly not convinced and she decides not to try to convince him. While she's sure he'd be infinitely more open to the idea of a reformed Malfoy than Ron, it would take a lot of time and effort. It's simply not necessary. This is only a temporary arrangement. Harry only needs to tolerate the idea of Malfoy for a little while, not actually like him. _She_ doesn't even like him, does she?

"I should go. He didn't even want me to contact you, said it would be too dangerous."

"Like he actually cares," Harry says sarcastically and she doesn't bother to correct him.

"Bye, Harry." And then she pulls her head out of the fire.

* * *

She finds Malfoy back in the study where she'd discovered him the night before. He's reading a worn paperback. Like books always have, this intrigues her.

"What are you reading?"

He tosses it to her, quoting as does so, "_"We're all going to die, all of us, what a circus! That alone should make us love each other, but it doesn't. We are terrorized and flattened by trivialities, we are eaten up by nothing."_"

The cover is so worn she can't actually tell what the book is. She raises her eyebrows at him.

"A collection of poems and musings," he tells her.

"Huh. I never pictured you as much of a reader," she tells him, plopping onto the other end of the sofa and flipping through the book. She supposes she shouldn't be so surprised. In only the last hour she feels she's found out he's a lot of things she'd never known.

"I always liked to read. My father wasn't too thrilled about it. He wanted a strong, athletic boy and I was always so thin."

Thin is certainly not a word she'd use to describe him now. She remembers, briefly, the sharp defined cut of his abs.

"Is that why you work out so much?"

"No." He picks at a thread on the sofa. "Working out helps me not think. About anything. I like that."

His words are slow, but so bare and honest that it pauses he next question on her lips. She wonders if he confuses himself as much as he confuses her.

"You lost so much in the war... I'm surprised you don't hate me."

He shrugs, but there's a weight to his shoulders. "It was my father's miscalculation. He chose the wrong side and I didn't do anything to save myself."

"But you never liked me, so it would only make sense that you would hate me now."

"No, I never liked you..." he trails off, looking thoughtful. Even when he's speaking ferocious truths he seems too calm, detached.

"Why are you _actually_ helping me, Malfoy?"

He frowns at her and she's noticed that his frowns usually come with a crease between his eyebrows.

"I told you. I feel guilty." It's clear he doesn't like saying it and she almost believes him, but there's more to it than that. She can see it in the tenseness of his shoulders and the way his fingers twitch.

"There's something else."

"No."

"You're not a very good liar." That's not true. He's been beyond difficult to decipher. Sure, he's told her personal things, but he seems to almost propel them out of himself. She hasn't done anything to try to take them.

"It _is_ guilt, okay!?" He snaps at her, eyes firing up. It's the first real, solid emotion she's seen from him beyond the listless disconnect. There had been touches here and there, a moment of amusement, a breath of arrogance, and traces of bitterness, but this time his emotion is fully formed, heated and intense.

"It's guilt because I can't fucking sleep at night because when I do I just hear you screaming and screaming and it never stops! And you're screaming for someone to _help_ you and I just stand there! I just stood there! So yeah, I'd do whatever it fucking takes to make that stop!"

She stares at him. He's just told the truth, that much is clear. He'd flung it at her, sharp and thoughtlessly. But even so, she struggles to confront it. Hadn't they already been through this?

"But that wasn't your fault."

He exhales furiously, shaking his head. "And there's that, too. I just stood by and watched you be tortured and you just keep saying you don't blame me. How the fuck do you forgive me for something I can't even forgive myself for?!"

"There were a lot of people there, Malfoy." And that was true. "Why should I blame you? You did what you could." Maybe she _would_ have harbored anger towards him, maybe she should have, but she can see the way it haunts him in his eyes, she can see the regret. And that's enough to dispel any anger she might have been able to muster. Besides, he'd been just as trapped as any of them, more so even, because of the blood in his veins and the mark on his arm. It wasn't protection, his name, his family, his duty; it was a cage.

He snorts and looks away in disbelief. "You're like a fucking saint or something. Seriously, what it must be like inside your head..." His anger has burned out, almost as quickly as it had come and the bitterness has replaced it. His voice is half sour, half exhausted.

"Don't be like that. I'm not a saint. I just have a different perspective than you."

He doesn't appear to be listening.

"You mean a perfect one?" His voice has gone dark, cold, dead. The emotion is gone, leaving his words entirely. She wonders if this is how he manages to be so unmoved most of the time, by losing his temper occasionally and in a magnificent fashion.

"No." She's unsure what she can say now. Will he tell lies or spit truths? Will he be furious or stoic? It's impossible to tell.

"Perfect Hermione Granger, smart enough for Ravenclaw, loyal enough for Hufflepuff, and brave enough for Gryffindor. The only thing you're not is a Slytherin. Most people would consider that a plus." Every word sounds more tired, more resigned than the last, but she can hear the anger beginning to fire up again, a second wind.

She takes a deep breath, tries not to snap back at him. It's what he wants. "What are you so angry about?"

His lip curls. "Everything. But don't mind me, I'm just a Slytherin, cunning and cold. And not even particularly good at that."

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, I was never a proper Slytherin," Malfoy informs her with mock enthusiasm, eyes alight with an internal malice. "Never clever enough, never cold enough, never ruthless enough, never hard enough. I always cared too much, I wanted approval too much. To Slytherin's the worlds a game, and it's all about how to play it to get to the top. It's all about the money and the power and getting ahead. And I never really particularly liked to play. But my father insisted. He was brilliant at it. And then he lost. Everyone does in the end. Some just last longer than others."

"You shouldn't judge yourself based on things your father said. He was a terrible man and you know it. You even say it." She doesn't understand how he can still see himself as he used to. How can he still be that little boy, struggling to live up to Lucius Malfoy's impossible standards?

"Doesn't mean he wasn't right about me," Malfoy says. His voice has quieted into a low, dull tone. There's no anger left. Too tired to argue. It's sad to see him wrecked like this. He's damaged, that much is clear. She'd always thought the war had been hardest on her and her friends, but the truth is, the war was only a little piece of what was hard for Draco Malfoy. She wonders if he's ever had an easy day in his life.

"Why are you being so open? I always thought you were such a private person." She mostly asks to distract him, but she has to admit she's curious. He's told her private things, _secret_ things, she imagines. He's expressed his self hatred loudly, wildly. And then he clams up, closes himself off.

He smiles wryly at her. "Privacy is for people who have something left to lose."

His words shake her. "You talk like you're about to off yourself."

"Who says I'm not? I take things day by day. Keeps a little mystery in the world."

Is he serious? He says it like a joke, but there's something that rings almost a little too true. Would he kill himself? Is he that depressed?

"Oh, stop looking at me like that. I'm not going to do it. Don't worry, I'm too much of a coward for it. I found that out a long time ago."

"You tried?" The idea adds a whole other dimension to him, a dark one that concerns her, but that also explains some of who he is. It explains a look she's caught in his eyes and the way he spits things out recklessly, personal things, intense things.

"I don't know if you can even call it that. I didn't get too far with the whole idea. It turns out, if there's one thing I'm good at, it's surviving. Maybe not very intact, but surviving all the same."

"That's not funny," She tells him, because his lips have curled up into a dark smile.

"It is, a little."

"No, it's not. You're hurt and you're trying to turn it into a joke."

He looks away from her. "Forget about it."

But it doesn't work like that. Still, he clearly hadn't meant for her to take his words with much weight. He'd said it to shock her, she thinks, but he didn't want her looking closer than that. He should have known that's just not who she is. The information on the surface has never been enough for her.

"Fine," she lies. She doesn't want to argue, but she certainly won't ever forget the things he's just told her. If he thinks she will, then he's a fool, but by the way his lips have pressed down into a frustrated line, she thinks he knows.

"Don't you have a job?"

She's thrown by the sudden turn in conversation. "What?"

He looks at her again. "I mean, don't you work for the ministry or something?"

"Yes?"

"So how is it that you're hiding out here?"

"I took some time off." She's not happy about it either. She _likes_ work and besides the whole running for her life thing, not being at work is boring. Still, she knew her work was suffering from her distraction and, while Bellatrix was not bold or insane enough to try to infiltrate the ministry, going to work everyday was making Hermione an easy target.

Malfoy's eyebrows have shot upward. "You took some time off?"

"That's what I said, isn't it?"

He's studying her, the slightest hint of a smile forming. "It is."

She rolls her eyes and crosses her arms across her chest. She doesn't like the way he's examining her. Mostly, his eyes have been far away places, haunted, nearly vacant. But not now. Now his eyes are fixed firmly on her, calculating, clever. This whole thing was much less uncomfortable when he was the one under the microscope, but he seems to have forgotten about himself for a moment.

"What?" She snaps, finally, unable to take his scrutinizing gaze one more moment.

"I think you're the private one." The answer throws her.

"You- I- What?"

"You said you thought I was private. But I think that's you."

He's right. She is private. _Of course_ she's private. In the muggle world she has to hide the magical side of herself and in he wizarding she's a celebrity, her every move analyzed. What else could she possibly be?

"If you're not private, then what are you?" She tries to turn the tables back on him. She doesn't want to talk about herself and certainly not with him. Not with this boy who is somehow charming and lost and somewhat intimidating all at once. From the way he looks at her she can see he knows what she's doing, but he lets her get away with it.

He shrugs. "Not much."

"That's not an answer."

He shoots her a dark smile. "Maybe I'm private."

She shakes her head, giving up, and turns her attention back to the book he'd tossed her. Books have always made more sense than people.

"You're exhausting," she informs him honestly.

For a long moment she doesn't think he's going to answer. She's started to become absorbed by the poetry, the flow of words. She almost misses it when he sighs his answer back.

"Don't I know it."


	9. Chapter 9

**Draco**

"_'Cause when I open my body I breathe a lie."_

He spends half his time regretting the words that have just come out of his mouth. He spends the other half unable to say enough. The things he wishes he could just keep secret seem to slip through his lips constantly. And the things he should say, the questions he should ask her, the polite and appropriate things always seem to get lost somewhere between his mind and his mouth. It's almost as if she's spelled him. Has she?

He pushes the suspicion away. That's Slytherin style, not Gryffindor. Still, her presence in his life gives him wildly opposite feelings. He likes having her there. It makes the manor feel less like a mausoleum to have someone to talk to, even if he says all the wrong things. On the other hand, she sets him on edge. He can't help looking at her and reliving a lot of moments he's ashamed of. It had taken a war to put things in perspective for him. And he's ashamed. He's never going to be noble and brave and all those stupid Gryffindor traits, but he doesn't want to be who he was.

They've fallen into something of a rhythm, strange, but getting more familiar everyday. They don't spend too much time together. He keeps to his routine, cooking, working out, reading. She takes to organizing the books in his study and he lets her, though it somehow feels intimate to have her examining them all, like she's arranging little pieces of him. But he knows she has nothing to do and must be going out of her mind with boredom, so he keeps quiet about it. This doesn't stop him from grumpily referring to her whenever he has to find something. She tells him she's surprised at his collection. He has a numerous amount of muggle books. He shrugs and doesn't answer. He thinks she probably understands and somehow it feels personal to explain to her that books, all books, are magical, wherever they come from. They eat together, the only time of day he's guaranteed her company.

Today, though, something's going to change. It's been a week and a half and his back is killing him from sleeping in the study, so today he's fucking doing something about it.

He finds her buried in Berg.

"_Talk Before Sleep_?" he asks, a little surprised by her choice.

She looks up at him, setting the book down. "I don't _just_ read classics, you know."

"No, I don't. You've been swallowing Austen like water," he tells her. And it's true. Every time he's seen her this week she's had an Austen novel in one hand. She brought them to meals with her while he rolled his eyes and grumbled about how boring she must find him.

"Fine." She crosses her arms across her chest. "I'm surprised you even _own_ this book."

"Better than that, I've read it."

"Liar."

"_"I hadn't realized how much I'd been needing to meet someone I might be able to say everything to."_" He almost regrets the quote when he says it. It's proven his point, but it seems much to appropriate to the situation and sounds nearly like a confession. He's relieved that she doesn't seem to notice.

She pouts for a moment, annoyed at being proven wrong.

"I've read all of these," he informs her, wanting to see her reaction. He knows she won't believe him. She hasn't yet realized how empty and long his childhood had been.

Her eyes narrow. "_That's_ a lie. There's too many."

"Try me." He's showing off. She thinks he's clever, she'd said so, but it's not that, not really. He's not smart the way she is. But he has a brilliant memory. He remembers everything. It's not always a good thing.

"Okay, this one." She holds up _Call of the Wild_ by Jack London.

"_"Love, genuine passionate love, was his for the first time."_"

She frowns, grabbing another book at random and holding it up. _The Kite Runner_ by Khaled Hosseini.

"_"I wondered if that was how forgiveness budded; not with the fanfare of epiphany, but with pain gathering its things, packing up, and slipping away unannounced in the middle of the night."_"

She reaches for another book, but he speaks up before she can hold it up.

"As much as I'd love to stand here and let you quiz me for the next several hours, I actually came in here for a reason."

She sets the book down. "Okay. What?"

"There's something I want to show you."

She narrows her eyes at him. "This sounds like you're just trying to get out of here before I find a book you haven't read."

"Just get up, will you?" He's too pleased with all this, too excited for her to see and he doesn't like it, so he keeps his words annoyed and short. He'd almost used the word "surprise," that he had a "surprise for her," but it wasn't for _her_, he thought fiercely, it was for him, really.

She stands up, glancing wistfully at the pile of books. He practically has to drag her from the room. She realizes pretty quickly where their headed.

"You know I've seen your bedroom before, right? I sleep there."

He passes his bedroom door and reaches for the knob of the door next to his. "I know. That's what this is about."

He can see her straining her neck in an attempt to see over his shoulder as he opens the door. She's always so impatient for new information. He finds it both vaguely irritating and endearing. He steps out of the way so she can get a good look.

"Oh." The look on her face is one of genuine surprise. She takes a step into the fully furnished bedroom, turning in a circle to take it all in.

"You didn't have to..." she trails off, touching the crimson bedspread.

"My back begs to differ. I wasn't spending another night on that fucking sofa."

She turns to look at him, a smile tugging the corners of her lips. "Are you trying to make this less sweet than it is?"

He wrinkles his nose. "I am _not_ sweet." The word feels utterly foreign applied to him. Besides, this _isn't_ sweet. It wasn't for her. Right?

"Yeah, whatever." She crosses to the window, checking out her view. He watches her for a moment, starting to feel a little uncomfortable with the situation. He mostly sees her at meals or if he drops into the study to read. There's only so much Hermione Granger he can handle in a day. He's discovered the less time he spends with her, the better control he tends to have over his traitorous mouth.

"Erm, well, I'll be in the kitchen if you need me," he says, backing out of the room.

"Wait."

He freezes in the doorway, looking at her looking at him.

"This is agarwood." She gestures to the furniture.

"...Yes?"

"It's just..."

"Obscenely expensive, yes, you informed me of that already, but since you preferred it to my furniture." He shrugs. He doesn't know why she's making a big deal about it. She knows he has a ridiculous amount of money.

She bites her lip, looking like she wants to say something else, but decides against it. She's looking at him with those eyes and there's something there, something that he can't identify and isn't sure he wants to. They stand there a moment, looking at each other. He opens his mouth to say something, to make his departure, but the things that are bubbling up his throat are things he _doesn't_ want to say so he snaps his mouth shut, turns on his heel, and leaves her there.


	10. Chapter 10

**Hermione**

"_I will not speak of your sin."_

She stays frozen where she stood for a full minute after he disappears from the doorway. She's not entirely sure what's just happened. The room had been a surprise, though she found it logical once she thought about it. Of course he wants his room back. The agarwood, though... It isn't the cost. He constantly reminds her how much money his family has. She thinks it's mostly a reflex, something that he falls back on to feel a little more like himself. Because this boy is not the Draco Malfoy she had known.

Slowly, over the past week and a half, she's been rebuilding him in her head. There are traces of the old him there, scraps of arrogance or sarcasm or anger, but it's only small pieces. This boy is lost and lonely and terribly guilty. But he's other things too, she's starting to realize, bright and talented and attentive. So no, it isn't the cost of the agarwood. It's that he _remembered_. It had been a passing comment, something she'd blurted out because she was uncomfortable and he'd filed the information away and pulled it out and used it. She's not sure anyone has ever taken her words that seriously before.

Her stomach growls loudly and she realizes, from the light slanting through the window, that it's nearly supper time. She makes her way to the kitchen slowly, unsure how he'll react to her presence. He'd clearly been dying to get out of her room, unable to handle her gratitude. She crosses her fingers that he'll be back to normal as she pushes the kitchen door open. His back is to her, leaning over the stove.

"What are you making?" she asks, alerting him to her presence.

He glances over his shoulder at her. "Soup. Got a late start, so..."

"Soup is fine." She crosses to the counter and hops up to sit on it so she can watch him work. Silence falls and she feels a bit awkward. She's been living here for days, but she can't say she really feels she knows much about him that she can use for small talk. He doesn't talk to her except at meals or occasionally in the study and any long conversations they've had he's ended up saying deeply personal things that she wouldn't dare bring up. Funny, how she knows all about his guilt and regret and self hatred and yet she can't think of a single trivial thing to start a conversation. She falls back on their mutual love of books.

"_Gone With the Wind,_" she says.

"What?" He looks at her, nose wrinkled in confusion.

"I'm testing you. Let's hear it." She notices a ghost of a smile slide across his lips.

"_"Vanity was stronger than love at sixteen and there was no room in her hot heart now for anything but hate."_" He smiles smugly.

"What about you?"

"What about me?" she asks.

"A _Gone With the Wind _quote, if you please." He was testing _her_?

"_"I loved something that I made up, something that's just as dead as Melly is. I made a pretty suit of clothes and fell in love with it."_" She sticka her tongue out at him.

"Not bad." He's stirring the soup himself, like a muggle. The image is strange and entertaining, but she doesn't comment on it. She kind of likes him like this, stirring soup and swapping quotes.

"Not bad? What, you've got something better?"

He looks at her. For a moment, she's just staring at those molten silver eyes and then he speaks.

"_"I'd cut up my heart to wear for you if you wanted it."_"

She feels frozen, staring into his eyes, hearing the words. _Don't be stupid,_ she thinks to herself, _they're a quote. They don't __**mean**__ anything_. Still, she can't stop looking at him, saying nothing.

"Soup's ready."

"What?" It takes her brain a moment to catch up with the situation and when it does, she feels a blush rise on her cheeks. She's an idiot.

"Soup's ready," he repeats, eyebrows raised. He doesn't give her a chance to explain, only fills her a bowl and hands it to her. She takes it to the kitchen table, relieved to get away from those eyes. What had she been doing, just staring at him like an idiot? It had been something about his voice and his eyes and that Goddam quote.

He joins her a moment later, looking unfazed and quite absorbed in his soup. She doesn't try to speak to him through dinner and he doesn't seem to mind. He taps the fingers of his left hand absently against the table top and she wonders what he's thinking about. He finishes first and deposits his dish in the sink, heading towards the door. Once he goes, she knows she won't see him again tonight.

"Hey."

He stops, turns around.

"I want to test you some more. Come to the study?"

An unreadable expression flashes across his face. She thinks it's partially a wariness. But what does he have to be wary about? She's been the one acting like a total idiot. He nods. She drops her bowl in the sink next to his and together they walk to the study.

* * *

"Okay," she says, eyes skimming the walls of books. They've been at this for hours now and she has yet to trip him up. "_The Blind Assassin._"

He closes his eyes. "_"Why does the mind do such things? Turn on us, rend us, dig the claws in. If you get hungry enough, they say, you start eating your own heart. Maybe it's much the same."_"

She opens her mouth to ask another, but he holds up a hand.

"I do one and you do one. It's only fair."

"I didn't claim to have read all these books."

"_The Stand_." He ignores her. Hermione Granger has never backed down from any test and she doesn't plan on starting now.

"_"Above, the stars shone hard and bright, sparks struck off the dark skin of the universe."_ Your turn. _Flowers for Algernon_."

He's quiet for a moment. "_"I don't know what's worse: to not know what you are and be happy, or to become what you've always wanted to be, and feel alone." Tell-All._"

She bites her lip. She's read it, but it's been ages and no quotes are coming to her quickly. She can see him watching her. He's competitive too. He wants to win.

"_"All human beings search for either reasons to be good, or excuses to be bad."_" She thinks carefully about her next selection. What will throw him? But she has no idea. He seems to have been telling the truth. He's read all these books.

"_The Rules of Attraction,_" she says, at last.

"_"What does that mean know me, know me, nobody ever knows anyone else, ever!..._" His voice gets very quiet. "_"You will never know me."_"

He doesn't give her a title. His eyes are suddenly very far away. She watches him run a finger over his dark mark. She's willing to bet he doesn't even know he's doing it.

"Have you ever tried to remove it?"

His eyes lock back on her. "No."

"Why not?"

His mouth presses into a hard line. "It's who I am. I want to remember. I want everyone to know. I'm not going to save anyone. I'm selfish. I'm in life for myself. I don't give a fuck about anyone but me."

"That's not who you are."

He snorts. "Yes it is. Don't pretend like you know better. It's all right here, branded on my arm."

He infuriates her. He's so determined to hate himself, to blame himself for things the world did to him. She pulls her sleeve up and sticks out her arm. _Mudblood_ stands out white against her skin.

"Is that who I am?"

He stares at the words carved into her skin. "That's not the same thing."

"Yes it is. You didn't want yours and I didn't want mine. They're the same thing. Someone branded us with a mark to tell the world what they thought we were."

"I let it happen. You didn't have a choice."

"Please. You aren't still deluding yourself into thinking you had a _choice_, are you?"

He's silent. He looks away from her, jaw working furiously.

"So is this who I am? Is this who you see me as, this thing on my arm?"

"Of course not!" he snaps, glaring daggers at her.

"Then stop fucking acting like that's how I should see you, as the thing on your arm."

He shakes his head, standing up. "I'm going out."

"It's midnight."

"I'm going out," he repeats, striding towards the door.

"Draco." She's never said his name, not once. She's aware of it and, by the way he freezes, she knows he's aware of it too. But it doesn't stop him. After only a moment, he keeps going, leaving her there.

* * *

He's still not home when she wakes up the next morning. She wonders if she's crossed some invisible line. It's one thing, she supposes, to forgive him for his crimes against her, but another to challenge his view of himself. His ridiculously determined need to despise himself seems to have almost become his lifeline. Without it, he's completely lost who he is. That doesn't mean that she thinks she should let him.

He stumbles in just before noon. He's a complete mess, rumpled, reeking of alcohol and perfume. There's lipstick smudges on his face. It's not exactly a mystery where he's been all night. It's sad, more sad than he usually is, and she doesn't even want to look at him, but something about him is captivating too, like watching a train wreck.

"What are you looking at?" He growls. The light in his eyes says he's still not completely sober.

"Nothing worth discussing." She probably shouldn't bait him, but she's annoyed too. Why is he the only one allowed to have a temper? All she's done is try to be _nice_ to him and he storms out and disappears for hours.

His eyes narrow. "How I spend my night, what I drink, who I fuck, it's none of your business."

She stands up, clutching a copy of _The Alchemist_ more tightly than she had intended. He's only a few feet away and she stands there, trying to see something to calm her anger in him, but he has nothing to give her.

"I didn't say it was," she says finally, annoyance clear in her voice. "I don't care what you do or who you fuck, but you could at least be decent to the only person who thinks you're _worth _something. Because there's only me."

"That's the fucking problem isn't it? You think you can expect something from me. But you can't. I told you. I don't give a fuck."

She stands there, hurt, though she hates herself for it, as he slams the door. Why did she think this would turn out any differently? Why did she think that maybe he _wouldn't_ be a total asshole? Because he let her stay and he loves to read and he cooks her meals and remembers the things she says to him? Because no, that doesn't change who he is, or that he's broken and viscous and angry. She should have known better. She's a smart girl and she knows boys like him. They're self destructive, they poison the things they touch, and she should get out of this sad place as soon as she can.

But leaving isn't really an option. At least, not now, with Bellatrix on the loose. So she'll bury herself in the books and she won't try to talk to him and if he has something he wants to say or something he wants to apologize for then he can find her and do it. She's done trying to reach out to him if he's only going to snap at her. Draco Malfoy will just have to fix himself.


	11. Chapter 11

**Draco**

"_There was a way out for him."_

Self destructive behavior. It was a term he'd heard applied to him for years. In the past it had been from Professors or parents of his friends. Now it was everyone. Now it was from himself. He knows that's what this is. He knows and he doesn't care. He relishes it. He wears it like armor.

She hasn't so much as looked at him in a week. She still comes to meals, but she always brings a book and keeps her nose buried in it. He doesn't think she's actually reading it because it's always the same one, _The Alchemist_, the book she'd been holding when everything between them had gone to hell. He wonders if this is some sort of hint, or if she just brings it with her because it's easy.

He doesn't try to talk to her. He doesn't want her to look at him with those gentle eyes. When she looks at him he feels all his guilt well up. He doesn't like to think about the way he's treated her, because it's not how he should and he knows it, but he has too much pride to admit it to her. He didn't _ask_ her to have faith in him. He had actively hoped that no one ever would.

He goes out every night now, because when he stays home he lies in bed and pictures her eyes, he remembers that she thinks he's _worth_ something. It terrifies him. When he's out he can drink and drink and forget. He can find some stupid slag and go home with her. It helps, because only when he's buried to the hilt in some random girl does he really truly forget, for just a moment, about Hermione Granger's unwavering belief in him.

When he's home, he avoids her. But she's there, and while she may be annoyed enough to refuse to look at him, he can't seem to stop looking at her. She's graceful and clever and beautiful. She's absolutely fucking beautiful. And she thinks there's something good in him. It's almost enough to make him hope she's right. Almost. But not quite. He's been soul searching for over two years and he hasn't found it. What could she possibly have seen in him in only a couple of weeks? Maybe it's just her nature, to want to believe the best in everybody. He wouldn't know. He's never believed in anyone.

He's nursing a hangover in the kitchen while she munches on toast and resolutely refuses to look at him. He's almost used to it by now. He knows he should eat something, but he really, really doesn't want to. He looks like hell, he's sure, still in his clothes from the night before. He's been sleeping less and less. He still sees her in dreams. She's not screaming anymore, but she's saying the same thing, over and over "you could at least be decent to the only person who thinks you're _worth _something." He can't get those words out his head, damn her.

She shuts her book with a snap, slamming it down on the kitchen table and looking up at him, making eye contact for the first time in days. He'd almost be relieved if the noise hadn't made his head pound.

"I'm going to Harry's," she announces, looking at him expectantly.

"Fine." She knows his opinion on the matter. She shouldn't go anywhere, he's told her that, but she's much too stubborn to care what he says.

"You don't mind." It sounds like she's confirming it, rather than asking.

He winces and presses his fingers to his temple. "What the fuck does it matter if I mind? You'll go anyway."

She rolls her eyes, standing and crossing her arms across her chest, towering over him. "Well, at least you've stopped pretending like you care if I live or die."

"Fucking hell, do we have to do this right now?" His head is throbbing so hard it feels like it might just burst and she's glaring at him. He will never, for the life of him, understand women. They've both been refusing to acknowledge the other's existence for _days_ and then all of a sudden, this. He prefers the silence.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Is this a bad time for you? You're always hung over when you're home, so I just assumed that this wouldn't be worse than any other."

"Just go to Potter's! You want to see your friends? Fine! Get the fuck out and see if I care!" He's got his face in his hands, trying to hold his skull together, so he doesn't see her storm away, but he hears her.

"Fine!" The fireplace roars and when he finally lifts his head she's certainly gone. It doesn't make him feel any better.

He's dozing when he hears the ruckus in his kitchen. It sounds like a wild animal's been let loose. He stumbles out of bed, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

"MALFOY!" It's a man's voice. It had almost sounded like... Potter? But there is no reason in the world that Harry fucking Potter would be in his kitchen.

"MALFOY!" Fuck, whoever it is needs to chill the fuck out, he's coming. He throws open the kitchen door, fully intending to curse the hell out of whoever thinks it's a good idea to burst into his house and start screaming.

"What the fuck-" The scene hits him in a rush. Harry Potter is indeed in his kitchen, kneeling on the floor, clutching a very pale, very bloody Hermione Granger. She's bleeding. And bleeding. And...

"Fuck." It's the only thing that comes to mind. He crosses the space in an instant, dropping to his knees next to Potter. There's so much blood.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck."

"Shut up and _do_ something!" Potter has his hands pressed to her side, but blood is seeping between his fingers. He reaches for his wand. His hands are shaking. Why are his hands shaking? He's dealt with this before, right? She was nearly dead when she came here in the first place. He knows what to do. But his mind is blank, filled with her blood.

"What the fuck happened?"

Potter shoots him a venomous look. "What do you _think_ happened? Your lunatic aunt attacked her, now _help_ me!"

Breathe. He closes his eyes for an instant, pretends she's not there, not lying there, bleeding out on his kitchen floor. His hands steady. _Save her_, he thinks, _you have to save her. She'd save you._ God, at that moment he wishes the tables were turned because she _would_ save him. He has no doubt in her abilities. She'd know exactly what to do.

"_Malfoy!_" Potter hisses, but it doesn't matter, he's got it now. He's going to save her. The spells come so fast he doesn't have time to think about them, he just acts. And slowly, slowly, she stops bleeding. When he's done, he leans back on his heels and stares at her, pale, covered in blood, but breathing, and healing. Next to him, Potter let's out a relieved sigh.

"Why the fuck did you bring her here?" He rounds on Potter. He's suddenly, intensely furious.

"Where was I supposed to take her?"

"To a hospital, for fuck's sake! They know how to deal with shit like this!" He shakes his head, nudging Potter out of the way so he can get his hands on her, pick her up. Her blood is still warm and it soaks into his clothes, covers his hands. He ignores it, standing. He ignores Potter too, as he turns and carries her to her bedroom. He can hear Potter trailing him.

"You shouldn't have let her come see me," Potter snaps.

He lays her down on her bed. She looks so vulnerable, so delicate. "Have you ever tried to stop her doing something she wants to do?"

"She was mad at you."

"I'm aware."

"You should have taken better care of her. I knew this whole thing was a bad idea."

His temper is riling up. "She nearly _died_ with you! She was fine here! She was fine when she was with me!"

"You let her go." Potter's accusation is clear in his voice. It tears at him. There's truth there. He hadn't done anything to stop her. He'd wanted her to go. He was tired of the icy silence between them, tired of how her faith in him ate at him.

"Get the fuck out of my house."

"I'm not leaving her."

"Get the fuck out!"

Potter stares at him through hot emerald eyes. "If you let anything happen to her, I will kill you." And then he goes.


	12. Chapter 12

**Hermione**

"_The mirror chose not."_

She wakes up to huge amounts of pain and Draco Malfoy sitting next to her. It's not like last time, when he'd been absent and cool and detached. This Draco Malfoy is a mess, or more of a mess than he usually is. He's covered in blood, her blood, she imagines. It's all over his shirt, his hands, even smears of it on his face. And he's sitting there, leg jittering up and down, looking strained.

"You're such a liar," she manages to whisper.

He jolts forward, clearly shocked that she's awake. "What?"

"You said..." she pauses, grimacing at the pain that lances through her. "...that you didn't give a fuck about anyone but yourself."

He slumps in his seat letting out a huge breath. "You've got to be kidding me. You almost _die_ and that's the first thing you wanna talk about?"

"Last time it was expensive wood. I think this is a step up."

He doesn't appear amused, shooting her a dark look. Maybe she should stop teasing him. He really does look like hell. Not that she can look any better. She's the one who'd almost died. For some reason, this thought doesn't frighten her. Maybe it's because she's been so close to death so many times now. It's like she doesn't believe it can happen anymore.

"You have blood on your face," she tells him.

"No shit." He seems to be settling into grumpy, but even so she thinks she can see relief on his face. He's glad she's awake. The thought makes her smile, though she tries to repress it because she doubts he'll take it well.

"You should probably, you know, take a shower or something."

"I'm fine."

She can't keep the smile back. It's just so easy to tease him for this. "I'm not going to die. Take a shower."

"I told you, I'm fine."

"You look like you just stepped out of a horror movie."

"Not too far from the truth," he grumbles. The blood on him is dry and cracking. How long has it been? Hours? Days? She wants to ask, but she's also not sure she wants to know. How badly hurt is she? Anything permanent?

"I shouldn't have let you go to Potter's." His voice is so quiet that for a moment, she thinks she's imagined it, but the stormy look on his face says otherwise.

"Let me? Like you could have stopped me."

"Potter blames me."

"Since when have you given a fuck what Harry's opinion was on anything?"

"When he may have a point." He rakes a hand through his messy hair, leaving flakes of dry blood behind. He really is a mess.

"Go clean up, idiot. And stop blaming yourself for everything that goes wrong in the world." She may be the one who almost died, but he's clearly more shaken up about it than she is. Why _isn't_ she more shaken up about it? Because she's here and he's here and... she feels safe in this place. When the hell did that happen? When did Malfoy Manor become a place that relaxes her? When did it start feeling like home?

He's eying her, and she can see his internal debate. A shower is clearly something that sounds good to him. She can't blame him. He needs one.

"Go! It's not like _I'm_ going anywhere."

"Fine." He stands up, stretching. How long has he been sitting there, covered in her blood? He gives her one last look and disappears from her view. It amazing, she thinks, how he'd swung from being annoyed and furious with her to protective. He's better than he gives himself credit for. This is twice that he's saved her life now. He doesn't have a reason to, but he's done it.

She trusts him. The knowledge rushes in suddenly. She absolutely trusts him. Who would have ever guessed that she would trust Draco Malfoy? But she does. He might not be willing to admit it, but he cares about other people. He wants to do the right thing. He wants to be good. He's just afraid of failing in that.

* * *

When she wakes again, it's dark. It's dark, and he's not there. Her mouth and throat are dry. She swings her legs out of bed, gasping at the pain in her side. Her side and her shoulder hurt terribly, but the rest of her seems to be okay. She stands slowly, every movement hesitant. After a step or two, she feels comfortable with the fact that she's not going to collapse. Her legs are weak, but not too weak to walk.

She makes her way to the kitchen step by step. She pushes the door open.

"What are you doing up?!" She hears him before she sees him. And once she sees him...

"What are _you_ doing?" He's kneeling on the floor clutching a sponge and, yet again, he's covered in blood.

"I'm cleaning, what does it look like?"

She leans against the doorframe, feeling tired, but this is just too good to miss. "No, I got that part. But _why_? You're a wizard. You have a wand."

"I'm aware of that, thank you," he says acidly. His shoulders slump. "I just... I wanted to do it right."

"You make absolutely no sense." She crosses the kitchen, retrieves a glass, and fills it with water, chugging it down. It's a relief. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees him stand up, wiping his hands on a towel.

"You shouldn't be up."

"I was thirsty."

"You should have called for me. I would have brought you a drink."

"I'm _fine_."

He narrows his eyes. "No you're not. You're shaking."

He's right. She's getting more tired by the second and she's starting to feel light headed. Even so, she doesn't want to give in to him. Her face must be pale, though, because he steps forward, looking concerned.

She doesn't know what makes her do it. Maybe it's the way he's looking at her with so much genuine concern, but before she can stop herself, she's hugging him. He makes a noise of surprise and for just a second he's absolutely stiff, but then he relaxes, holding on to her.

"Thank you," she whispers. He tenses at her words.

"I'm sorry," he whispers back. What is he apologizing for? It better not be about this whole idea that this latest set of injuries is somehow his fault.

"For what?"

"For everything. I'm sorry for everything that I did and never apologized for..." His words are so sad. But he didn't need to tell her that.

"I know." And she does. She's known it all along, but she wonders if maybe he hadn't.


	13. Chapter 13

**Draco**

"_Your values are all shot."_

Things settle back into a tentative pattern. They don't talk about what happened before. He doesn't go out... as much. When he does, she doesn't mention it. He kind of hates that she can see through it, that she can see him running away. Then again, he's not trying to _hide_ it. He doesn't want her to think he's good. He's accepted that fact that he can't stop it, but he's certainly not going to encourage it. She knows his stance, that he's not reliable and never will be. She rolls her eyes, but hasn't argued.

They swap books and stories. She tells him about her catastrophe with polyjuice potion in second year and he laughs so hard that she throws a book at his head. He doesn't have much to give back to her, but that's nothing new. He's certainly not going to tell her about growing up in Malfoy Manor, about his father's expectations, his anger, or the hatred he spewed. He's not going to talk about his friends from school. They weren't really his friends anyhow, he'd only discovered that too late.

She doesn't push him. He wonders if she's afraid of an explosion like last time. It had served its purpose. She _had_ stopped pushing. She hasn't brought up his dark mark. She hasn't asked about anything death eater related. She's danced around the subject of his father. The only personal thing she's dared to ask is about his mother, who occasionally ghosts through the halls. He shrugs and explains that he doesn't know what's wrong with her either. She refuses to go to St. Mungos. She refuses to come out of her room for meals anymore, so the house elves have been bringing them to her. Her appearances seem to be totally random. He's fairly certain she hasn't even actually noticed Hermione Granger is living with them.

She's taken to his books with a force, organizing and reorganizing and muttering about patterns and statistics that he doesn't understand or care about. He's sure her obsession with the books come from her need to always be doing something, to have something occupy her mind, a mind that moves to fast that he sometimes feels like he's been left miles behind.

But it's _nice_, having someone around, having someone to talk to. They've become comfortable with each other, which he'd never thought possible. They argue and poke fun at each other and never talk about anything too serious. She's constantly challenging his literary knowledge, but has yet to trip him up. In recent days, she's expanded to other subjects, dragging out old tomes on everything from Arithmancy to History of Magic to Charms to Muggle Studies. He finds this both amusing and vaguely irritating. After all, they _graduated_, but more and more he finds himself sucked into debates with her over the merits of one charm versus another or how many times to stir a particular love potion. He's always liked to learn and very rarely been around others who fostered this passion.

"I told you, it's a sweeping motion," She says smugly, demonstrating the spell perfectly.

He drops onto the sofa, shoving a pile of books out of his way, trying to be a graceful loser and not pout too much. She thinks it's funny when he pouts.

"Hey, watch the books!" She scoops up the pile he'd moved, looking protective. "I'm reorganizing."

"Seriously? Again?" He leans back into the pillow, closing his eyes. He's feeling quite warm and content and generally good, which comes a surprise to him. He hasn't felt _good_ in ages.

"There's always a better system," she says in a singsong voice, flitting around the shelves and returning them to seemingly random places.

"Mmmhhhmmm."

"You're not even paying attention."

"Yes I am." He cracks an eye open. She has her arms crossed across her chest, eyes narrowed, but the quirk in her lips gives her away.

"You're napping. This is why you always put the books away in the wrong places."

"They're _my_ books. There are no wrong places."

"You couldn't be more wrong." She pokes him in the arm and he shifts long enough for her to slip onto the sofa with his head in her lap.

"You're always napping."

"I'm tired. You know who cooks and cleans this place?"

She snorts. "Please." He opens his eyes and finds himself staring at the book she's holding open above him. "The house elves do that."

"Hey!" He snatches the book from her so she's looking down at him. "I cook everyday."

"Fine. But don't even pretend like you clean." She takes the book back, opening it and disappearing again.

"I could clean." He doesn't mention that he had cleaned _once,_ when her blood had been coating the kitchen floor. He'd scrubbed furiously, like he could fix things by washing every inch of it away himself. Looking back on this, he's embarrassed by it. Why had he done that? What sort of wizard is he, anyway, scrubbing the floor like a muggle?

"I'm sure you could. Go back to sleep, I'm trying to read."

"You're bossy." But his eyelids really are terribly heavy, so he doesn't fight it. He begins to drift away to the sound of her turning pages. He's almost asleep when he feels her fingers brush against his arm, against the image marring it. His first reaction should be to stop her, but he's so warm and comfortable and he doesn't want to do anything but stay in this place, so he doesn't move. She traces the lines of the tattoo and he can almost see it, even though his eyes stay resolutely closed. Her fingers on his skin is the last thing he's aware of before he slips into sleep.

* * *

He's not sure how much later it is when he wakes up, only that the sunlight is slanting in the window and she's gone. He rubs sleep out of his eyes, trying to shove down this strange feeling that's rising up in his chest, something associated with happiness, but with an edge of panic that he doesn't like. His nap has reminded him why he doesn't like sleeping on the sofa, his muscles feel tight and uncomfortable. He stands up, stretching, trying to work out all the kinks.

"Oh, good, you're up..."

He turns to see her standing in the doorway. There's an expression on her face he can't quite pinpoint and it makes him unsettled.

"What?"

She jolts in surprise. "Nothing. I just came to see if you wanted me to ask the house elves to make dinner tonight since you seem so tired."

"No, I can do it." He likes to cook. He likes to keep to his routine. "Why didn't you wake me up?"

"You just looked so-"

"-don't you dare use the word 'sweet' to describe me again."

She pauses. "...content, then."

He _had_ been content, though that clearly wasn't where she'd been intending to go with the sentence. He couldn't remember being more content in his life, even now, just standing here, he's so utterly content.

"So, you _don't_ want the house elves to cook?"

"No, I'm coming." He stretches one last time, then follows her to the kitchen, just feeling so fabulously, fucking content.


	14. Chapter 14

**Hermione**

"_But oh, my heart was flawed."_

She watches him lean over the piece of parchment she'd just finished, eyes narrowed in concentration as he assesses her work. She can't seem to stop looking at him. It's infuriating. It's terrifying. More and more, she catches herself gazing at him, admiring the line of his jaw, the silver of his eyes, the way his muscles stretch over his skin. _Stop it_. She _can't_ think these things. She just can't. Because nothing can ever happen there.

"Not bad, Granger," he drawls, snapping her guiltily out of her thoughts as he pushes the parchment back to her. "But it was 1538, not 37. Losing your edge?"

"No!" She reaches for the parchment, her hand brushing against his. His skin is warm and smooth and she feels her breath hitch in her throat, her heart rate speeding up. This is has to _stop._ It's absolutely ridiculous. What is she, twelve?

"Are you okay?" He's watching her, eyes confused. Of course he's confused, she's acting like a lovesick child. She can't even take a piece of parchment back from him without having a minor panic attack. When had this happened? It had snuck up on her, one piece at a time.

"Yes. Well, I have a bit of a headache. I think I might lie down."

He frowns at her. "Do you need me to get you anything? I can make tea?"

Hell, he's so Goddam sweet sometimes. But no. "No, I'm fine. I'll just be in my room." She needs to figure how to stop feeling like this.

* * *

Lying in bed with nothing to do may not have been the smartest choice. At the time, she'd just thought she needed to get away from him, to stop noticing things, but this isn't helping, because now she's just lying here thinking about it. _It doesn't matter_, she insists to herself. It can't lead to anything, it can never lead to anything. No one would ever understand. Besides, he probably would laugh if he realized what was going through her head.

It's not her fault, not really. Of course, it was inevitable that she'd come to see how attractive he is. Anyone could see that, and she's coupled it with the fact that he's saved her life twice. This is totally normal. It will pass.

_He wouldn't __**want**__ you, anyway_, she reminds herself. He's the sort of boy who walks into a bar and his choice of the women to take home. He's proven that. And she's being ridiculous if she thinks he would ever look twice at her. Not that she wants him to. It would only complicate matters if he felt something for her. It would never happen, anyway.

Still, she can't fucking stop looking at him, watching the way he moves, the way he looks at her, the way he smiles. She can't stop thinking about what it would be like to really touch him, how he might taste, how he might feel inside her. It's _lust. _It's just something that happens. It will go away. It's just lust.

She just needs to think about something else, anything else, but it's hard when he's always just out of reach. She knows this feeling. She's felt it before and it hadn't ended well. She can't let it progress. She has to stop it. She just has to get control over herself, over her thoughts. She needs to stop looking at him, stop thinking about him. If there's one thing Hermione Granger can't afford to do, it's to fall in love with Draco Malfoy.

* * *

She stares at her bowl of pasta and reminds herself not to look at him. It's easier said than done. She's been doing a fairly good job, but the times that she has chanced a glance, she's seen him looking back, looking confused and maybe a little hurt. She knows she's been distant the past few days. She's been _working_ at it. She has to, because when she does make eye contact with him, when she talks to him, she can feel herself lighting up and that _has_ to stop.

"I found something."

She can't stop herself from looking up at him as he slides a book across the table. It's old, nearly falling apart and it's enough, for a moment, to make her forget about this horribly intense attraction she's been feeling towards him. It piques her curiosity and she picks it up.

"What is it?"

"I don't know. I thought you might be able to figure it out. You've seemed sort of... listless, the last few days."

"I'm not listless! I'm-" she clamps her mouth shut. She can't say what she is and especially not to him.

"You're what?" His eyes are bright with a challenge. He suspects something, but she's not sure exactly what it is and she's not going to fill him in.

"Nothing. I just... haven't been feeling well." She stands up, pushing her food away and scooping up the book. Something to do. He's right, she needs something to do. Maybe she can bury herself in this book and forget about him. He's on his feet too. She has to get out of here.

"I just need some fresh air."

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing." She has to go, because he's looking so concerned and she wants to touch him and comfort him and explain everything and she _can't_. She makes for the door.

"Wait." His catches her elbow, skin on skin. She stops, feeling the brush of his fingers against her, wanting to lean into him. Her heart rate has picked up. She tries to form words, to free herself, but her mind is traitorously blank.

"Let me _help_ you." His words are pleading. He's looking at her and she can see in his eyes how badly he wants to fix whatever is wrong. And she just wants to kiss him. _Kiss him. Kiss him. Kiss him._ She _can't._

"Nothing. It's nothing," and then she pulls from his grasp and doesn't look back.


	15. Chapter 15

**Draco**

"_I knew my weakness."_

He can't say he really has any idea what's been going on the past few days. She's alternately cheerful and withdrawn. He feels her eyes on him, but then she looks away and grows quiet and moody. She claims she isn't feeling well, but he knows there's something deeper bothering her, he just can't, for the life of him, figure out what. He's not sure he wants to. He suspects it has something to do with him. Perhaps she's coming to finally realize how ridiculous this whole situation is, that he might not be evil, but he certainly isn't good. Perhaps she's losing faith in him.

The thought isn't comforting, like it should be. He hadn't ever wanted her to believe in him in the first place, so why should it hurt that she might be losing her ability to do so? But it does. He wants to recapture that faith. He wants her to believe that he would do anything he could to help her. Because he would, because he finally believes that about himself. He's not good, no, but he'll do what he can for her. He doesn't care what happens to most of the world, but he cares about what happens to her. Still, if she's pulling away, isn't it best to let her? She's better off without him in the long run. She needs him now, while she's being hunted, but once that's over... Wouldn't it be best for this friendship between them to be over too? He'll never be good for her, even if he wishes he could.

But now. She needs him now and he's not sure how long it's going to be that way, so he feels a desperation to deliver. She's upset about _something_ and since she won't tell him what, he'll just have to do his best to keep her occupied with other matters.

* * *

He's nervous to approach her these days. He's never sure what sort of reaction he's going to get, but this time she looks up from her book and smiles at him, a bright, welcoming smile that warms him straight through, making him smile back.

He tosses a coat and mittens at her. "Here. We're going for a walk."

She raises her eyebrows. "It's the middle of July."

"Stop being bossy for one minute and put them on." He's already wearing his own and he has to admit it's sweltering.

She rolls her eyes and does as she's told. "Now what?"

"Come on." He tromps his way towards the doors that lead out to the gardens. It's evening, but it's much warmer outside. She follows him, looking skeptical as he leads her to the hedge maze and to an almost hidden little gate. He has to fight with the rusted hinges before he's able to shove it open.

Winter wind hits them in a blast and he shivers, despite his heavy coat.

"After you." He grins at the shocked expression on her face as she steps through the gate and into winter. He follows her, closing the gate behind them. It's snowing here, flakes coming down lazily from the sky.

"What is this place?" She's turning in a circle, shoes crunching in the snow, eyes wide.

"Winter garden. There are four inner gardens in the hedge maze. Each one is enchanted to be a perpetual season." He trudges towards the middle, feeling snowflakes land in his hair. Personally, he doesn't much care for winter, but he'd noticed the way she'd seemed to love the snow and the magic of it. Funny, how winter seems more magical to her than _real_ magic.

"Where are you taking me?" She's always impatient to get to know things. He ignores the question and keeps walking. She trails along behind him, occasionally spinning in circles to look at everything.

"There."

She stops. Right at the center of the garden is a frozen lake. "Oh." Her breath plumes out in front of her, spinning and then fading into the air. Her face is lit up, shining. She waves her wand and transfigures her shoes into skates. In the next instant, she's out on the ice, twirling and laughing.

He watches her, feeling satisfied. He'd wanted to distract and he thinks he most definitely has. She's stopped in the middle of the lake and is looking up at the sky, the snow floating down around her and catching on her hair and eyelashes. She turns to him.

"Are you coming?"

"Skating isn't really my thing." He doesn't mention that the memories that he has of skating on this lake all revolve around his mother and, somehow, stepping onto it now, without her, will be like admitting that those few happy memories of his childhood are over, never to be experienced again.

"Come on!" She's smiling at him and it's the most at ease he's seen her look in ages. All he can do is magic himself some skates and join her. She's back to spinning in circles, so he can see she's surprised when she looks up and he's there.

"It's beautiful out here," she breathes.

"I thought you'd like it."

"Why didn't you show me earlier?" she pouts, pretending to be annoyed.

"Didn't think of it. I just wanted to cheer you up."

"Oh." The expression on her face is odd, something like gratitude and despair. And then it's gone and she's spinning in circles again, smiling and trying to catch snowflakes on her tongue. The cynical part of him wants to roll his eyes, but all he can do is watch her and smile and feel a sort of swelling pride that it was him, what he did, that made her look like that.


	16. Chapter 16

**Hermione**

"_So, hold my hand."_

She's given up on trying to pretend that she's not irrevocably attracted to Draco Malfoy, at least to herself. Her new strategy is to simply not do anything embarrassing as she waits for it to pass, to fade away. Watch him? Yes. Touch him? Maybe, if it's appropriate in the situation. Kiss him? No. Tell him? Absolutely not.

These are her new rules. It's working better, when she's not denying everything. He seems happier, now that she's surfaced from what he thought was some sort of strange depression. It's funny, in an ironic sort of way, that he'd clearly thought she wanted nothing to do with him, while she'd been trying to convince herself that she could stay away.

Things aren't perfect. She still feels the urge to touch him at every opportunity. She avoids looking at him for extended periods of time, or else her brain begins to scream for her to kiss him, do something. But for the most part, things are better.

This morning, she's woken up with a restlessness that she can't shake. She wants to _go_ somewhere. She knows where, too, but she doubts he'll agree without a fight. She figures her best bet is to spring it on it him quickly.

She bangs on his door until he opens it, blinking sleepily at her, hair ruffled.

"What?" There's traces of annoyance in his voice, but she doesn't mind. He's all bark and no bite.

"Get dressed. I want to go out." He's wearing sweatpants and a white t-shirt, and while she prefers the casual Draco Malfoy to the carefully slicked back one she remembers from school, she expects even he wouldn't want to go out in his sleep clothes.

"What?" He's moving slowly, letting her herd him back into his room. She passes him and starts opening dresser drawers, finding him a pair of jeans and a fresh shirt.

"Out. To London."

"_What?!_" He looks awake now, and substantially grumpier. "You _can't_."

She crosses her arms. "What conclusion did we come to about your ability to stop me from doing the things I want to do? Oh, that's right, that you can't."

"Are you _insane_? The last time you went out you almost _died_. Does that not mean anything to you?" He's staring at her with hot eyes.

She shoves the fresh clothes into his arms. "Don't worry so much. It'll be fine." And with that, she slips out his room before he can protest further.

He appears a few moments later, frowning furiously. "I still say no."

"If you won't come with me, I'll go without you." From the expression that crosses his face she knows she's got him hooked. He won't let her go alone.

"Have you got a death wish or something?"

"No. We're going to _muggle_ London. It's unlikely she'll be looking there. You purebloods always underestimate muggles."

"That's not comforting." He's clearly annoyed and worried, but it doesn't matter because she's got him, and there's nothing he can do about it now.

"Let's go!" She grabs his hands and apparates them away. He's already grumbling as soon as they appear, muttering under his breath. She can't catch most of it, but she gathers that he thinks she certifiably insane. There's another bit about blood and the rest of his house.

"Cheer up!" She tells him, taking off down the sidewalk. It's not until a block later that she realizes she's still holding his hand. She can feel herself blushing, but she can't think of a good way to drop it without drawing attention to the fact that she was holding it in the first place, so she just continues to do so, feeling how large and warm and callused his palms are.

She spots her destination up ahead and quickens her pace, nearly dragging him along. She pushes the door open and stops, taking a deep breath and feeling her whole body relax with the familiarity of it all.

"I should have known." She turns in time to see him shaking his head and rolling his eyes. There's a trace of a smile on his lips. She knows he can't help it. This is his sort of place too.

It's three stories of endless books. Not carefully organized, but piled and stacked, in every direction. Even in the magical world, she doesn't think she's seen anything to rival it. She drops his hand and snatches up the nearest book.

"Look! _Dead Souls_ by Gogol! You don't have this."

"That's in Russian."

"So?"

"Can you read Russian?"

She crinkles her nose. "No, but I could _learn_. Maybe I want to learn Russian."

"Or you could find a copy in English," he suggests, picking up a book and examining it before dropping it back on its stack.

"It wouldn't be the same." Even so, she sets the book down. He does have a point. She ventures deeper into the store, running her fingers along the spines of the books. She loves everything about books. She loves the weight of them in her hands. She loves the sound of paper turning. She loves the smell. She loves the way she can go anywhere in them, learn anything.

She pauses. "They have the whole _Les Rougon-Macquart_!"

"Is it in French?" She can't tell where his voice is coming from, but even from here she can hear the amusement in it.

"_Yes_. But I _can_ read French, thank you very much!"

"Mhm."

"I _can_!" And she begins to loudly read a passage in French from _Germinal_ at him, grinning to herself. He appears at the end of her aisle.

"Alright, alright, I get it. Your French is very good."

"Merci." She curtsies, then returns the book to its rightful place.

"You aren't going to get it, then? I thought they had the whole _Les Rougon-Macquart_." He's teasing her, she can see it in his eyes.

She lifts her chin. "I've already read it, actually."

"Of course you have." He pulls a book off the shelf, and she watches the saddest smile slip over his lips.

"What is it?"

He glances up at her, then hands her the book. "My mother used to read this all the time."

"_Wuthering Heights._ You should get it."

He shrugs. "I'm sure I have a copy somewhere."

"I haven't seen it."

"She must have it in her room." He gives her a half hearted smile, then slips away to browse another section. She watches him go, wondering if she could have done something to make him feel better.

* * *

They leave the shop weighed down by books, and pause on the street outside. It's a gorgeous day, bright and warm, with a lovely breeze. They apparate back to Malfoy Manor, but she stays outside with her books, finding a sunny spot on the lawn and settling down. Going back inside would just seem like too much of a cage.

He joins her at dinner time, bringing out a blanket and platters of food. They eat outside, comfortable in the summer air. There's something soft and light and perfect about the day. She can't stop smiling and laughing. They stay there, talking and joking and griping with each other as the sun sinks and night falls, the stars peering out.

She leans back against the blanket to look at them and he does the same. They continue to talk for some time, but slowly, they fall silent, just watching the stars in the sky. For the first time in a long time, she feels perfect. She has no desire to be anywhere else doing anything else.

She wakes up curled against him, head on his chest. His slow breathing tells her he's asleep. For a moment, she lets herself revel in the feeling of his heartbeat underneath her cheek and how warm and comfortable and perfect it is to be here, pressed to him, but then she sits up, gets a grip on herself.

She shoves his arm. "Wake up."

"No," he mumbles, sighing hugely and shifting.

"It's the middle of the night!" she tell him.

"How..." he yawns, blinking his silver eyes open. Starlight glints off of them. "is that any incentive for me to wake up?"

"We're still outside."

"So? It's warm."

She rolls her eyes. "Fine. Stay here. I'm going to bed." She stands up and out of the corner of her eye she can see him, a dark shape against the sky, clambering to his feet. He gathers the blanket and dishes, grumbling to himself. He's always grumpy when woken up. It's kind of endearing.

"You're so bossy," he informs her, and together they walk back to the manor.


	17. Chapter 17

**Draco**

"_Consign me not to darkness."_

He wakes late in the afternoon to the sound of screaming. He's out of bed in an instant, heading for his door, franticly wondering what's happened to her. He throws the door open to find himself face to face with Hermione. She has her fist raised as if about to knock. Her eyes are wide.

"It's your mother," she says breathlessly.

He takes off down the halls, the stone cold on his barefeet as he runs. He can hear her following, but he doesn't slow.

He finds his mother, slumped in her bed, wailing.

"Mum!" She's got her knees pulled up to her chest and she's screaming. She doesn't seem to register his presence. He approaches tentatively, kneeling at the edge of her bed.

"Mum, what's wrong? Are you hurt?"

Her wild eyes focus on him for a fraction of a second. "He's _gone_!" She wails. He's gone. She keeps repeating it over and over. He can only assume she means his father. Has she just now noticed? He can't help but be unsure why she's so upset. Lucius had been abusive and cruel. But who else could she be talking about?

It takes him a full hour to get her to stop screaming. Even then, she curls on her bed and moans. He's gone. He's gone. He's gone. He doesn't know what else to do for her, so eventually he backs out of her room and stands in the hallway, leaning against the wall and breathing. He's never seen his mother like that and it shakes him.

"Are you okay?" He finds her looking at him with those compassionate eyes.

"Yeah. I don't know what's wrong with her."

"She was talking about your father, wasn't she?"

He shakes his head. "I don't know. Who else could she mean?"

They find out two hours later when the owl arrives. It swoops in, drops an official looking envelope onto his lap, and swoops back out. He stares at it, suddenly sure he knows what it's going to say. It's from Azkaban. He opens it with shaking fingers.

"He's dead."

She looks up at him from the book she'd been reading. "What?"

"My father. He's dead." There's a strange hollowness in his voice that he can't control.

"But he was sentenced to the kiss, not death."

"He starved himself to death. Refused to eat." He hands her the letter. His hands are still shaking. It shouldn't matter. He hated his father anyway. She scans the letter, brow furrowed. Her eyes are huge and sad and so fucking compassionate. He hates it. There shouldn't be anything to feel sad about.

He stands up jerkily, going to the cabinet and digging out his Scotch. He takes a long swig, taking comfort from the fact that it's only a matter of time before everything becomes a blur.

"We should celebrate." His voice is bitter and he hates himself for that. It shouldn't matter.

"Don't." She reaches for the bottle, but he pulls it back.

"You drink or leave me to drink." He doesn't want to have a serious conversation. He doesn't want to talk about his feelings. He wants to drink and forget.

She reaches for the bottle again and catches it before he can pull away. He opens his mouth to repeat his demand, but he doesn't have to, she's tilted her head back and is drinking.

* * *

Everything is warm and soft and utterly hazy. He can feel his brain struggling to keep up with him, as he reaches for the bottle, swallowing more alcohol down. He turns and finds her a breath away, looking up at him with bright, blurry eyes. He's so busy staring at her eyes and thinking about how fucking beautiful they are, that he doesn't realize she's kissing him for a second. _She's kissing him._ And she's everything.

He leans into her, pulling her closer, closer. She's so warm, and soft, and perfect. His brain is processing things in fragments. Her lips, hot and delicious against his, her hands pressed to skin under his shirt, her body aligned with his.

Somehow, he finds himself in his bed, pressing her down against the mattress. It's like the world is moving so fast, flashes. Skin, lips, breath. And their clothes are going now, piece by piece, until there's nothing left. And she's everything.

And she's sighing and moaning and her fingers are digging into his back. And her skin is hot under his lips, and he's buried deep inside her. She is everything. They are one thing, one perfect, glorious thing, caught up in ecstasy and passion. Her breath hitches and his name falls from her lips as she clenches around him. And then he's done for, collapsing against her. And fucking hell, she's everything.

He lies there, head spinning, the world in fragments and tries to figure out why he has a sense that there's something he should be worried about.


	18. Chapter 18

**Hermione**

"_So, crawl on my belly 'til the sun goes down."_

This time when she wakes up in Draco Malfoy's bed, she's naked and he is too. He's asleep beside her, looking peaceful and utterly tempting. But she can feel the panic building in her. This hadn't been how it was supposed to go. This was never supposed to happen. She has to leave before he wakes up. They'd been drunk. He'd probably been drunker than her. She can't be here to watch him wake up and regret what had happened. She doesn't want to see that in his eyes. She'll get up. She'll go back to her room. She'll take a shower and wash him from her skin. By the time she sees him again, it'll be like it never happened.

She stands up, creeping around the room and picking up her clothes. She pauses in the door to watch him sleep, just a moment longer. Her throat aches and she can feel tears welling up. She's so incredibly stupid, she's gone and done the one thing she couldn't afford to do; she's fallen in love with him.

But it doesn't matter, she reminds herself. It wasn't supposed to happen and she'll just have to suck it up and pretend like it hasn't. Maybe he won't remember last night at all. That's the most she can hope for, because she doesn't want to talk about it. What would she say, _thanks for the drunken sex, by the way, I'm in love with you?_ She doesn't think so.

She spends an extra long time in the shower. When the steam first starts swirling up around her, she can smell him in it. She stands there, inhaling the scent, trying not to cry. What had she been thinking? She should have known that if she drank with him, she'd end up doing something like this. It's hard enough to resist him when she's sober.

She closes her eyes and leans her forehead against the tile of the shower. She's an idiot, such an idiot. She'd seen this coming, tried to prevent it, even, and she'd still somehow managed to fall in love with him. Even with her eyes closed, she can see him looking back at her, silver eyes, tousled hair, a slight smirk. Fucking hell.

She can still feel every detail about it, his lips, his hair, the way he'd filled her, perfectly. She almost wishes the sex had been bad. Maybe then she'd be able to logic herself out of this situation. But it hadn't been and she can't find any piece of her that wouldn't want a repeat performance. She can only imagine what it would be like to have him sober.

_Enough_, she's an adult and sometimes things happen. She can have a one night stand. He's certainly done it. It doesn't have to be awkward. And if he doesn't bring it up, then she won't either. Maybe things can just go back to the way they were before.

When she enters the kitchen an hour later, she finds him burning the letter from Azkaban. He glances up at her and smiles ruefully.

"Why are you burning it?"

"Because I don't want it. And mother clearly doesn't need to see it. She _knew_. How do you think she knew?"

She sits down at the kitchen table, relieved that he hasn't mentioned their night. "Magic? But I don't know any that would do that. Maybe they were bound, somehow, in more than marriage."

He frowns, brow furrowed, clearly thinking about it. He reaches for a platter on the kitchen counter and sets it on the table. French Toast. Her stomach grumbles.

He raises an eyebrow. "Hungry?"

"Starving." She stacks her plate, trying not to look at him too much. She can feel his eyes on her, but she doesn't want to meet his. What if he sees everything she feels looking back at him. That can only lead to disaster.

There's a tapping on the kitchen window. She looks up to see an owl floating there.

"That's Harry's!" She hops up and lets owl in, removing the letter from its leg. She opens it, skimming through the lines quickly.

"What?" He's watching her and she realizes she's frowning.

"Nothing. I just have to go to this thing for work. A banquet."

"You what?"

"It'll be fine. The whole Auror department will be there. Bellatrix will hardly show up to _that_. I have to go. All the heads of departments have to be there to vote on how to handle the remaining round up of death eaters." She walks back to her seat, cutting up her french toast. He follows more slowly, sitting down and watching her for a minute before returning to his food. They eat in silence while she has an internal debate.

"Will you go with me?" She can't stop the words, though she's not sure she should say them.

"Go with you where?" He's still shoveling food into his mouth.

"To the banquet."

He chokes on his french toast. "What? To a _ministry_ function?"

"Why not?" She knows why not and from the look he gives her, he clearly thinks she does too. There are a lot of reasons why not. He's Draco Malfoy, for one.

"Because no one at the ministry likes me. Have you forgotten who I am?"

"No, but I want you to come." She almost wishes she could take back the words. He's not hers. _They_ aren't anything. Does she really have a good reason to ask him to come, other than she has feelings for him that she can't tell him about?

"Why?" He looks baffled. Well, he clearly doesn't suspect she's in love with him, with that reaction.

"Because you make me feel safe." She almost can't breathe as soon as she's said it. It's honest. Maybe too honest. He nearly chokes again, but manages to swallow. He's regarded her with surprised eyes and she doesn't know what to do, but look back, so she does.

"I shouldn't-"  
"-don't make me argue with you about that. It's not about your stupid logic."

That shuts him up for a minute, then, "Okay."

"Okay?"

"Okay, I'll go. When is this horror fest?"

She glances at the letter. "Two weeks."

He takes a deep breath, then nods. It's almost like he's preparing himself for battle and she bites back the urge to giggle.

* * *

She manages not to do anything too stupid in the next two weeks. Somehow, everything goes the way she'd hoped and they both pretend that nothing had happened. At least, she thinks that's what she wanted. It's both a relief and a disappointment. One part of her brain is screaming at her to touch him, kiss him, but she ignores it. This is better. You can fall out of love. She's done it once.

He's not around as much and she knows he's been spending time with his mother. She can't begrudge him for that, even if she knows, from the sad look in his eyes, that she's not any better. As far as Hermione can tell, Mrs. Malfoy hasn't spoken since the day Lucius died.

He's reading her _WutheringHeights_. She's heard it when she walks past the room. It's so beautiful and sad all at once. Part of her wants to join them and hold his hand, but he doesn't want that from her, she doesn't think. He's made no indication of it, anyway. It's better this way, right?

The more time that passes, longing for him, the harder it is to think so. The banquet creeps ever nearer, and somehow, it feels like some sort of deadline. A deadline for what, she isn't sure.


	19. Chapter 19

**Draco**

"_I'll never wear your broken crown."_

Two weeks ago, he'd woken up with a massive hangover and Hermione Granger gone from his bed. It had come back to him in a rush of fragments. Her lips, her skin, her body under his. He'd laid there, now very aware what it was he was supposed to be worried about. He'd had sex with her. With _her_. And she'd been _everything_. She was everything.

But it was a mistake. She'd clearly thought so, since she was gone by the time he'd woken up. It was a mistake because they can't ever have anything more. She's beautiful, and clever, and perfect. And he's Draco Malfoy. No other explanation is needed. Still, he couldn't shake the hollow ache in his stomach that he'd been left with.

She'd pretended nothing had happened and he pretended right along with her. It was better than either of them voicing what they both knew. They'd made a stupid, drunken mistake. So what if he would love to make it over and over again? That wasn't the point. It shouldn't have happened at all.

And now he's standing in the kitchen, waiting for her to finish getting ready so they can go to this absolutely horrendous banquet. Why had he agreed to this? But the answer is simple. Because she'd asked him.

He hates everything about this. He's in a tux and he hasn't worn anything remotely fancy in two years. He hates clothes like these. He hates fancy parties where people pretend to be something they're not. He's been to way too many of those in his life. Hermione appears in the doorway wearing a long black dress and she's so beautiful it fucking hurts.

"Let's go," she says, so he takes her hand and they do.

The tension that they create when they arrive is palpable. People stare at him, so he stares right back, jaw tight, daring them to say something. He's tired of hiding from them. She touches his arm, gently.

"Ignore them."

"Easy for you to say, they don't hate you."

"They don't even know you," she says, and then pulls him towards a group of people. He groans internally as he realizes that not only Potter, but the Weasel is in the group.

"Hermione!" Potter grins at her, then sobers when he notices Draco. The Weasel just looks shocked, staring at him like he's never seen another human being before.

"Hi, Harry," Hermione says warmly. "Ron," she adds, her voice a little tight. For the first time, Draco wonders what had actually happened there. She'd mentioned they'd been together for quite some time, but not how it had fallen apart. He hadn't bothered to ask because he hadn't cared. He finds, now, he cares quite a lot. He's glancing between them, getting redder and redder.

"Er, why is Malfoy here?" Potter asks awkwardly.

"Because we're _friends_, Harry."

The Weasel makes a weird strangled noise. "You're _what_?"

"Please, Ronald, don't make a scene."

"A scene?!" His voice is pitched oddly and excessively loud. "Who said anything about a scene?!"

"Ron," Potter's tone holds a warning.

"Oh, what, Harry, you're just fine with it, then?!"

"Hermione can be friends with whoever she wants, Ron." Potter's voice is still soft and stern, but Draco thinks he can see a flash of annoyance in his eyes. He doesn't really believe his own words.

"I'm just confused! That's all! When exactly did this happen?!" His voice has been slowly rising and people are starting to look. He doesn't _know_, Draco realizes. He has no idea where Hermione has been all this time.

"That's not really any of your business, Ron!" Hermione snaps.

"None of my business?! I think it _is_ my business?!"

"No, it's _not_," she hisses, then turns on her heel and sweeps towards the balcony. For a moment, Draco is left standing there with Potter and Weasley and then he turns and follows her.

He finds her outside, breathing steadily. Her cheeks are full of color and he can see the tenseness in her shoulders.

"Are you okay?"

"Yes. No. I don't know. Ron just makes me so mad. I can't stand him sometimes. It was always like that." There's something almost wistful about her tone that he doesn't like, but he tries to ignore that.

He comes to stand beside her. "Yeah, well, you know my opinion on the Weasel."

"Yes, thank you, I do."

They stand there, breathing in the fresh air. "Sometimes I think I hate him too."

"You don't hate anyone, obviously," he tells her.

"What's that supposed mean?"

"It means that if you were going to hate anyone, it would be me."

She turns to face him. She's standing very close. "I don't hate you."

He can't breathe because she's so fucking close. Their noses are almost touching. Every single pore in his body is screaming _kiss her_. He leans in-

"-Hermione?" They jerk apart to find Potter standing in the doorway. His eyes flick over them bright, aware, concerned. "They need you for the vote."

Her cheeks are flushed again. "Um. Yes, coming." She follows Potter off the balcony and back into the room. Draco doesn't follow. He leans his head back to look at the stars and sighs. So close. Should he have even been that close? Probably not. But he'd wanted to. It's terrifying how much he'd wanted to.

He keeps his distance from everyone the rest of the banquet. Hermione's caught up by people, all asking her about work and how she's been and he leaves her to it. He has no desire to talk to anyone in that room. He notices Potter eying him carefully at times and the Weasel watching him with downright disgust. He doesn't care. It's none of their business, whatever it is.

Eventually he retreats back to the balcony. He has some privacy there. He doesn't know how long he's been standing there when she finds him. She's smiling, which surprises him, since the last time he'd seen her she'd been looking a little stressed and more than a little annoyed.

"What are you so happy about?" he asks.

She kisses him.

He's so surprised by the action that it takes him a moment to fully grasp that she's _kissing_ him. It's better than he'd remembered. Fucking Hell, why hadn't they been doing this for the past two weeks?

She pulls back, smiling. "I'm happy because we can go home. Let's go home."

And fuck if he wouldn't take her anywhere she wanted to go.


	20. Chapter 20

**Hermione**

"_I took the road."_

She doesn't care that it doesn't make sense. She doesn't care that no one she knows would approve. She doesn't care that she's head over heels in love with him and she's not sure his feelings are quite the same. She doesn't care because she's happy. She's happy going to bed with him at night and waking up next to him in the morning. She's happy and in love and for once in her life she isn't going to think too much about it.

She lies in his bed, watching the the sunrise through the window. He's asleep, pressed against her. He hates mornings, but she loves them. She's always been an early riser. She rolls to face him and presses a kiss into his cheek.

"Wake up."

"Do I have to?" he mumbles, eyes scrunched closed, fighting the morning light. She kisses his neck, lingering at his pulse point. She feels his heart rate pick up a little.

"I suppose not."

"Mmmm. I could be persuaded."

"Nah, you want to sleep." She starts to rolls away, but he catches her by the waist and pulls her back so she's lying on top of him, kissing her shoulder.

"I changed my mind. I definitely don't want to sleep."

She opens her mouth to answer him, but he rolls them over and what she'd been about to say is lost in a gasp of surprise.

"You're absolutely insatiable," she informs him. He catches her mouth with his. She loves the way he kisses. She loves his weight on top of her. She loves him. God, it's almost disgusting how much she loves him.

* * *

"What're you cooking?" she asks, wrapping her arms around him from behind, standing on her tip toes to see over his shoulder.

"Thai. It's been way too long since we've had some ethnic food." He turns around, leaning back against the counter and pulling her in. He rests his forehead on hers. It's been two months since the banquet and they have yet to discuss _what_ exactly they are. She knows this is probably a bad idea, that it's going to lead to someone getting hurt eventually, but she's afraid to bring it up and drive him away. Right now, it's perfect.

He leans in, kisses her. She closes her eyes and kisses back, winding her arms around his neck. Ever since this started, they haven't been able to keep their hands off each other. He picks her up, spins them around, and sets her down on the counter. She wraps her legs around his waist, pulling him in.

Someone coughs. She starts, pushing Draco back to find Harry standing in the kitchen.

"Harry! What are you doing here?" He stands there, a cut on his cheek and a very uncomfortable expression on his face.

"I just came to tell you..." he trails off, eyes flicking between her and Draco. "We found Bellatrix. She's dead."

"Oh." It's the only thing she can think to say.

"Yeah." Harry shifts awkwardly. "So, er, I'll go. Carry on." He winces, "or, er, not. I don't know." He shakes his head and then disapparates.

She glances at Draco, who has a tightly controlled expression of neutrality on his face. She wonders what he's really thinking.

"Are you okay?" she asks, watching his jaw work.

"Fine. I just don't like people bursting into my house."

"It was kind of important, though," she points out. Not that she's exactly thrilled at Harry's timing, either. He shrugs and stomps back to the stove. He only stomps when he's grumpy.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"You aren't upset about your aunt, are you?" She's not sure what about the past few minutes have flung him into a bad mood.

"Fuck, no."

"Then what is it?"

"_Nothing_. Just tell Potter to stay out of my place."

"...Okay." She knows that expression and knows she won't get anything out of him when he's like this, so she sits down at the kitchen table and reads while he cooks. He doesn't talk to her while he's working, which is unusual. She has trouble concentrating on her book, but clearly he needs some space, so she doesn't push him.

Forty-five minutes later he sets a plate of Thai in front of her, but continues with his silence. She eats quickly, deciding that if he's going to be moody, she's going to take a walk in the gardens and let him sulk.

"Are you going back to work?" His question comes out of nowhere.

"What?"

"Now that Bellatrix is dead. Are you going back to work?"

She frowns. "Well, not tomorrow, but of course. It's my job."

"Right." He stares down at his plate.

"And home. You're going home, then." Is that what this is about? Is he actually upset because he doesn't want her to _leave_? The idea makes her smile.

"I mean... I hadn't thought about it. I guess..." What is she supposed to say to that? It's not like he's offered her permanent residence, or anything.

"Right," he repeats, not looking at her, frowning. Well, there's nothing else for it, because he's clearly not going to come out and say it, typical boy.

"Do you want me to stay?"

He glances up at her, eyes lit up, then quickly looks away, shrugging. "Whatever. You can if you want."

She can't help it, she bursts out laughing. His head jerks up, staring at her.

"_What?_"

"You can't even say it," she gasps between fits of giggles. " _"__Whatever. You can if you want,"_" She mimics. "That is so _male_ of you. Couldn't possibly express any feeling on the matter."

He scowls at her. "Fuck off."

She can't breathe she's laughing so hard. "You're ridiculous."

He crosses his arms across his chest, but she hardly notices. He can try to be as macho and grumpy about it as he wants, he's not fooling her. She gathers herself, suppressing her laughter.

"I'll keep your opinion in mind," she says, scooping up her book and heading towards the study. There's a beat of silence before he calls after her.

"What does that mean?!" She doesn't answer.

* * *

She sighs, eyes drifting closed. They're in the study, her curled in his lap while he reads. She'd been reading too, but her eyes had gotten too heavy, so she's dropped her book and leaned her head against him. She goes back to work tomorrow and she's not nearly as excited about it as she thought she would be.

"I wanna go to bed," she murmurs.

"Mmm?"

"Bed."

"Five more minutes." He always stays up as late as possible. He fights sleep in a way that she doesn't understand.

"I have to go to work tomorrow."

"I know." His arms tighten just a fraction. "You've been talking about it all week." He'd stopped being grumpy about it, but he still sounds melancholy whenever it comes up.

"I'm excited." Or she was... Right now she can't think of anything better than staying here with him.

"Okay." She hears the sound of him dropping a book. "Bedtime."

He sleeps better than she does that night. She keeps waking, worried that she's missed the time to get up. She's nervous about returning. She's worried about everything she'll have to catch up on. And she's going to miss his presence. He's been only a breath away for months.

She finally falls into a deep sleep in the early hours of the morning. When she wakes up with the sun, she finds his side of the bed empty and cool. It's strange and a little concerning. Excluding the times she'd been recovering from injury, she's always gotten up before him.

She slides out of bed, tugging his t-shirt she'd been sleeping in down to cover her thighs. She heads to the kitchen. He's there, frying eggs and bacon.

"I was thinking I might have to come wake you up," he says, glancing over his shoulder.

"Wake _me_ up? You're never out of bed this early."

"Had to make sure you eat. I know you just skip breakfast when I don't force it on you."

"Breakfast is overrated."

"It's the most important meal of the day." He hands her a plate of eggs and bacon. "Eat."

She smiles to herself, taking to plate to the kitchen table. He's right. She wouldn't eat if he didn't make her. She's eaten better at Malfoy Manor than anywhere else, but Hogwarts. He's quiet through breakfast, but it's not his moody silence, it's a comfortable one.

She finishes first, deposits her dishes in the sink, and heads off to get ready for work. By the time she's ready to go, Draco's back in bed, dozing.

"So, you really can't get up early."

"I can get up early," he tells her lazily. "I just can't sustain it."

"It's a good thing you're rich. I don't think you could take the work world."

"It's unlikely we'll ever find out."

"Well, I, unlike you, have a job that I'm about to be late for. I have to go." She's makes for the door.

"Hey," he catches up with her.

"What?"

He kisses her deeply. "Okay. Now you can go."

Now she's thinking she'd rather not, but she only rolls her eyes and smiles at him and does the responsible thing and goes to work.


	21. Chapter 21

**Draco**

"_And I fucked it all away."_

He's fucking screwed. He probably has been for a lot longer than he'd realized. After all, he hadn't seen any of this coming and if he had, he would have run the other direction as fast as he could. Shouldn't he have learned by now that the more people you care about, the more you have to lose? And now he's gone and done the stupidest thing he could. Because he's never in a million years going to deserve her. There is no way this is ever going to last.

But he can't help himself. Who did he think he was kidding? He's always been weak. He couldn't resist the pressure from his family and now he can't resist her. He's fabulous at digging himself graves. And he's starting to bury himself. She doesn't see the end coming the way he does. He sees it from the moment Potter arrives in his kitchen and tells them his aunt is dead. That's the beginning of the end. She might pretend like things can stay the same, but they can't. He'll lose her to the real world. Had he ever convinced himself he might be able to keep her? He's not sure anymore.

He doesn't sleep well anymore. For a few weeks, he'd slept better than he had in years, holding her. But now he can't sleep. He lies awake at night and tries to etch this memory of lying next to her so deep in his brain that it will never, ever fade.

She rolls over next to him, eyes blinking open in the moonlight. "Why are you awake?"

He's lying on his back, staring up at the canopy ceiling of his bed. "Couldn't sleep. Bad dreams."

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing." She's quiet for a so long that he thinks she's gone back to sleep.

"I love you."

It's like being slammed in the chest with a sledgehammer. He can't breathe and it _hurts_.

"No, you don't." She can't. And he can't let her. Why'd she have to go and say that? Because now he has to stop it. She sits up.

"I do. I love you."

He closes his eyes and tries to breathe. He swallows. "No."

"_Yes_. What about that is so hard to believe?"

Does he really need to answer that? Any of it? All of it? He could say those things, but he doesn't.

"Why?"

"Why, what?" She's got her arms crossed across her chest. She does that when she's feeling vulnerable.

"Why would you ever love me?"

She's staring at him, sitting there, just staring at him. And then she gets out of bed, grabs the book on her nightstand and throws it at him. He catches it, but only just.

"What the fuck?"

"You should read it," she says, and then leaves him there.

He looks down at the book in his hands, worn and thin. _The Alchemist_.

He's read it before and he has no idea what the fuck she's on about and his head hurts and his throat aches and really all he wants to do is rewind time to before she'd said it and everything can last a little longer.

He still can't sleep, so he flips absently through _The Alchemist_. He has absolutely no fucking clue why she wants him to read it. He remembers it. He doesn't see how it's relevant. He's flipped through the whole thing three times before he sees it. It's not underlined. It's not highlighted. It's the tiniest little drop of ink next to a line of text, barely separating it from the rest of the words.

_"__One is loved because one is loved. No reason is needed for loving."_

He closes the book.

* * *

It's been three days. He hasn't seen her. She's been taking meals in her room. He's supposed to fix this. He doesn't think he can. He stands outside her door and tries to convince himself to knock. And say what?

He knocks before he can think about it too much.

"What?" Her voice is muffled by the door, but he can still hear the anger in it.

"Can I come in?"

Silence. He's about to walk away when the door opens and she's standing there, chin raised.

"What do you want?"

Fuck. Now he has to say something. He hadn't really expected her to let him in.

"Well?"

"I'm sorry," he blurts out.

"For what? Are you sorry about what you said, or only that you said it?" He can see the hurt in her eyes. She doesn't understand, she'll never understand, that it doesn't _matter_ that she thinks she's in love with him. Either way, whatever they are, it's doomed. She'll leave him eventually.

"I just... I need some time, okay?" It's a lie. In time, she'll be gone, but he doesn't know what else to say. "It's hard for me... to accept love." That's true. It's fucking terrifying. It's going to rip him apart. It's already started. He should leave now, now that he's said it and she can feel better and he is prepared to lose her, or as prepared as he'll ever be. But he doesn't leave because she takes his hand and looks at him with eyes that believe he's better than he is. So he stays.

* * *

He's almost fooled himself into believing it all when it comes crashing down. It's not how he'd expected it to happen. It all falls apart with a whimper, not a bang. He comes into the study to see her opening a package. He drops down beside her, tired. He'd been up late the night before, dealing with a minor breakdown his mother had. They'd woken to her screaming and it had taken him hours to calm her down again.

"What is it? A book?" He yawns.

She glances up. "A photo album. Harry sent it."

He leans over to get a better look. "Pictures from school?"

She flips through the pages, smiling. "Yeah. Look, this was right after we became friends." She taps a picture of her, Potter, and Weasley, all looking young, round faced, and slightly awkward, shuffling and grinning. She flips a couple more pages.

"This was after Harry and Ron crashed the flying car and Ron's wand was malfunctioning all over the place. He tried to fix it with spello-tape." She rolls her eyes, smiling. She continues on, pointing out photographs and adding anecdotes to go with them. He listens and watches, but his mind is whirring and he can't pinpoint why. And then he sees a photograph and he sees the expression on her face and he understands. In a rush, a painful, clarifying rush, he knows.

"You're still in love with him."

"What?" She's frozen, mid page turn.

"Weasley. You're still in love with him."

"I-"

"-Don't. Don't lie. Look me in the eyes right now and tell me you don't love him."

She opens her mouth, pauses, shuts it again. It's almost more painful than the initial realization.

He speaks slowly, as calmly as he can. "That's what I thought."

He stands up. He has to get out of here.

"Draco." He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, looks at her. She bites her lip.

"I- just... don't go."

He shakes his head. "I was stupid. I shouldn't have... It's better this way. It's me and you. You should go back where you belong."

"Are you kicking me out?"

"No." He couldn't do that. He doesn't _want_ her to leave. He's never wanted her to leave, but he's always known it was going to happen and she _should_. How could he have ever, for even a moment, thought all this had anything to do with him?

"But you should go," he adds. Because she should. She stands up too.

"Do you want me to go?"

He snorts. "Don't pretend any of this is about what I want."

"Fine." She sets her jaw. "I'll go."

He nods and crosses to the door. He pauses there, wondering if he should say the thing that is playing on his lips. She's not looking at him. He could just leave and she would never know. Besides, it's stupid. It's painful. He shouldn't. But he's always had to take the hardest road, hasn't he?

"For the record..." he begins and she turns to look at him. "I know I never said it, but I did-" he stops himself. If he's going to say it, he might as well be honest. "do-I do love you."

He leaves before she can say anything back. He doesn't want her to. And he knows himself, so he knows that even if she did, he couldn't believe it.


	22. Chapter 22

**Hermione**

"_Now in this twilight, how dare you speak of grace?"_

"Hermione?" She looks up to see Harry standing there, holding two cups of tea, brow furrowed. He'd clearly been speaking to her for a while.

"Sorry, thanks." She takes a tea from him. Her head hurts. Everything hurts. She's not surprised. She's been here before.

"You're sure you're okay?"

"Yes, Harry. I'm fine."

He sits down next to her. "You don't seem fine. Why won't you tell me what happened?"

"Nothing happened. I came home."

He nudges her with his elbow. "I'm not Ron. I know when you're lying."

She sighs. "What do you think happened, Harry?"

He scowls. "I think that git was exactly that, a git."

"It's not..." she pauses. "It was both of us." And it was. She's been able to see it with some distance. She thinks he probably always saw it. That was part of the problem.

"Tell me about it?" She finds Harry regarding her out of warm green eyes. For a moment, she's content, because Harry isn't complicated. He's just her friend and he always will be. Things with him never have to be complicated.

"I think... I was in denial about a lot of things. I hadn't faced some things I should have and he... He was the opposite. He faced everything and let it break him. I guess I just wasn't ready to accept that sometimes being in love isn't enough."

"You love him, then?" It's almost not a question. He knows the answer, she can see it in his face.

"Yes."

"I thought you might." It's as simple as that she loves him for it. Harry has always been able to accept things better than anyone else she knows, especially in recent years. After everything they've been through, he knows what's important.

"I guess... I guess I just always thought that if you loved someone enough and they loved you back, that you could figure everything else out. But it's not true. There's other things that matter too and I can't fix him and he can't fix me. It doesn't make it better, but I can see now that he was right, we wouldn't have worked, not the way we were."

Harry sips his tea. "So, what now?"

"I fix me. I can do that."

He smiles at her. "I know."

* * *

She has to wait a full five minutes for Ron to open his front door. When he does, he's carrying a plate of food with him. The fact that his appetite is just as she remembers makes her smile. Some things never change. He's clearly surprised when he sees her.

"'Mione?" He swallows his mouthful of food before he speaks again, so some things do change. "What're you doing here?"

"I needed to talk to you." She steps past him into the apartment. It's familiar. She'd lived here once too. The memories come floating back and for the first time in a long time, there's no pain in them. He follows her to the living room.

"What's going on?" She sits down and he follows suit.

"I've been doing a lot of thinking lately and I've realized that there are some things I never really let go of in my life. You were my first love, and when that ended, I didn't know how to face that properly and move on, so I just buried it. I think some part of me didn't really believe I could ever fall in love again and then I did. But when I did, I couldn't help but drag all this out again and it was a mess. I didn't want to deal with it. I think first love is always special, but it's just that, first love. I was scared that if I looked back at it, I'd realize that I was right, that it would never go away. But the thing is, I can come here and it doesn't hurt anymore. I love you, Ron, I think I always will, but I'm not _in_ love with you anymore and I needed to come here and say that to you and finally let myself really end this."

He stares at her for a moment and then says, "Why are girls always so bloody complicated?"

She laughs. "It's not _complicated_, Ronald, it's _complex_."

"It's bloody ridiculous, that's what it is." He's grinning, though. "And emotional. Why are girls always so emotional?"

"Oh, please. Harry told me you practically ate out Honeydukes when we broke up."

Ron scowls. "Maybe I just like sweets."

"I'm sure that's all it was." She stands up. She feels lighter, somehow, like she's finally broken away from something that's been weighing her down for ages. There's another weight on her heart, a tortured, beautiful, silver eyed weight, but she ignores it. If she can stand here and say this to Ron now, one day she'll be able to do the same with Draco.

"I should go. I have loads of work to catch up on."

"Right." Ron walks her to the door, crunching on crisps as they go.

"I'll see you at work? Or at Harry's?" she asks, pausing on the doorstep.

"Sure." He looks like maybe he wants to say more, but he doesn't, just takes another bite of food and waves with his fork as she walks away.

* * *

She spins around, counting chairs, then points. "There. Table six." Everything is a mess. There's so much to do. She takes a deep breath. She has time. She turns to find Harry walking through the tent flaps.

"Harry! Thank goodness!" She waves him over. "I need you to check on the food."

"Check on the food?" he repeats uncertainly.

She rolls her eyes. "You don't have to cook anything. Just go see how long until it's ready."

"Oh, okay." He looks relieved. "The event is going to be great. I know you've worked hard on it," he tells her, before heading off in the direction of the kitchens.

She smiles to herself. She _has_ worked hard on it. She's fallen back in love with her work and now it's time to celebrate. Everyone in the department had worked so hard to get the laws changed. This is the least she can do to thank them.

A whole year. She can't believe it's been a whole year since she started back to work and started this whole project for muggle born equality. It's been a year of digging through old laws and finding discriminatory laws, rewriting them, getting them passed, or abolishing them altogether. She never could have done it alone.

"Hermione."

She turns to find Ginny standing next to her. "Ginny!" She hugs her.

"You look happy," Ginny comments. And she's right. She _is_ happy, almost incredibly so. She has never in her life felt so much like she's in the right place and the right time. She'd always been meant to get here. She believes that.

"I am. So much work and finally we get to have our party." She can feel herself grinning, glowing.

"We're proud of you, Harry and I." Ginny looks happy too, she realizes, and it's in such contrast to the way things had been for such a long time.

"How are things with you and Harry?" Hermione asks.

Ginny smiles. "I think he's going to propose."

"I hope he does. It's about time."

Ginny laughs. "I imagine you're looking forward to your trip? Paris. I know how much you love France and you really deserve some time off."

"I can't wait... though it will be hard to stop working for a while... There's still so much I want to do."

"There's time for that later," Ginny says, wrinkling her nose.

"Of course," Hermione agrees. The conversation lapses comfortably. Everything is right, she thinks, and it's the first time in a year that she's thought that.


	23. Chapter 23

**Draco**

"_I can take the road and I can fuck it all away..."_

He's where he needs to be. It's the first time, maybe in his life, that he's felt that way. It's taken him a long time to get here. It's not perfect, but it's nice, and that's more than he's ever expected things to be. It's more than nice, actually, it's good. And good is not something that Draco Malfoy is familiar with.

He leans over the parchment, dipping his quill into the ink, and writes. He'd never known it was in him, the words that spill out now, but it is. He lets his thoughts leak onto the paper. He lets out everything that he's never been able to say out loud, not to anyone, not even to her. And it does something. It softens everything. It lets him breathe.

Somewhere in the past year, the nightmares stopped. He can't pinpoint the time. But it's been months since he's had one. He's writing things down and he's letting them go. He hadn't known he could do that. It had taken a broken heart for him to try. But he's done it and now he's even done something he's proud of. It's a first.

The last year has had it's ups and downs. He's been so low he never thought he'd crawl back up, but he's here now and he's good. He's, dare he even think it, happy? He's been busy. He's kept himself busy and it's been therapeutic. And now he's here and here he doesn't have a history. He's no one. Just a young man like anyone else. Maybe a little bit of a mystery, but generally normal.

He puts down his quill and stretches. It's late morning and he doesn't have much time before he's supposed to be at the cafe, but he has a stop to make. He's running low on books and that simply won't do.

He follows the cobblestone street to his favorite bookstore. It's a small place, but very full. It smells like books. He loves it here. He wanders into the stacks, running his fingers along the spines of the books. He can't come here without thinking of her, though it's a completely different bookstore in a completely different place. Books will always draw up her memory, he imagine. He turns a corner and stops dead. Like he's conjured her up purely from thinking of her, she's standing there, staring back at him with an equal amount of surprise.

"Draco?" It's been a year and still his throat aches, looking at her. "What are you doing here?"

What is _she_ doing here? "I live here."

"In France?" He can see her trying to process the information.

"Yes."

"What about the manor?"

"It's still there, still mine. I just didn't want to be there for a while." That had been an understatement. It was suffocating him with all it's memories, both the good and the bad.

"What about your mother?"

He pauses, unsure of every word. "She died."

"Oh," she looks horrified. "I'm so sorry, I didn't know."

"It's alright. She was miserable. She's somewhere better now." He shifts uncomfortably. Looking at her is still hard. She's more beautiful than he remembered and he misses her. He has a feeling he always will.

"I'm sorry, anyhow. I'm sure it wasn't easy for you... so, France? Why France?"

He shrugs. "Already owned a vacation home here. It seemed ideal. Why are you here?"

She bites her lip. "Vacation. I've always loved it here. Mum and Dad brought me on holiday."

He glances at the clock on the wall and curses mentally. "Er, well, it's been nice to see you, but I actually have to get to work."

She stares at him. "Work? You have a job?"

"Not for the money."

"What do you do?"

"I'm a cook," he tells her, just the tiniest bit proud about it too. "I just needed something to get me out of the house. I was spending too much time in one room once I started writing."

"Writing," she repeats, looking utterly confused. "You write now, too. What do you write?"

He gives her a smile. "Everything. But like I said, I have to be going, so..." he heads for the door, feeling like his heart is going to explode. Is he really just going to go? Why wouldn't he? He has a job now, and she's not a part of his life, not really.

"Draco!" He turns to see she's followed him and she's looking at him with this odd expression.

"Can I meet you, after your shift, I mean? Where do you work?"

He swallows. Part of him thinks he should say no, but... He gives her the name of the cafe. And then he goes, because he's fairly certain that if he doesn't go now, he won't go at all.

* * *

"I like this place better than the manor," she tells him, turning to take in more of his vacation home. It's certainly a lot smaller than the manor and much cozier.

"Well, I'm glad you approve," he tells her, clearing away the rolls of parchment that clutter the living room. She's sitting on the sofa, sipping a mug of tea. He sits next to her, not entirely sure what the fuck either of them are going to say next.

"You have a job," she says finally, for about the fourth time.

He rolls his eyes. "Yes, I have a job."

"But you have to wake up before noon and everything."

"I sleep better than I used to."

She sobers slightly. "You seem happy."

He nods. He's thought it, almost, but been afraid to voice it, but he'll say it now. "I am."

"How'd you do it? How'd you get here?" He's wondered the same thing a million times over, but he thinks he has an answer for her.

"I wrote it down, everything I was holding onto and that I hated about myself and that I felt guilty about. I just wrote it down over and over and eventually I started to let it go. I still feel it a lot, angry and sad and guilty, but it's dulled. I'm no use to anyone or anything the way I was before. So I left the manor and I started doing things, starting being someone. I didn't have anything to define myself by back home other than my failures. Here I have things."

"Do you think you'll ever come back to England?"

He ponders the question. "Yes. It's still home."

She takes a sip of tea and he watches her, remembering things he'd forgotten, things he hates he'd forgotten because it means he's forgetting little bits of her.

"What about you?"

"What about me?" she asks.

"I've read about all your work in the papers. You must be happy about all that."

"I _am_." and he can see by the way her eyes light up that she means it. "I feel like I've accomplished so much."

He laughs. "Everyone else always knew you would." Her accomplishments are no surprise to him. He's always thought she could do anything she put her mind to. He'd fallen in love with her brain and her ability to make things happen and the way she saw the best in people. She would always be able to do anything. It was one of the reasons he'd never felt good enough for her. He tries to forget those feelings of self loathing, now. He's not like her, but he doesn't have to hate the person that he is.

He glances up to find her studying him, those paralyzing eyes tracing the lines of his face.

"What?" he asks, feeling uncomfortable.

"I still love you."

It is the last thing in the world he expected to hear. The amount of things he feels in that moment are so numerous and complicated that he doesn't manage to do anything but sit there and stare at her. She blushes.

"I know you never believed it before, or, didn't have the ability to accept it, or something. But I loved you then and I love you now and-"

He kisses her.

She makes a surprised little sound at the back of her throat and then she's kissing him back and all he can think is that this, this right here, is exactly where he's meant to be. Here, with her. And her words are ringing in his ears, _I loved you then and I love you now_, and for the first time he believes her. He'd thought it the first time he'd kissed her and he thinks it now, she is everything. He thinks she probably always will be.


	24. Chapter 24

**Hermione**

"_But in this twilight, our choices seal our fate."_

They're where they're meant to be. She understands this now. She had been right when she told Harry that love wasn't enough. They'd needed to go through other things, to grow as people, to face the demons in their pasts, and they have. And now they're here, waking up to the sunrise together and they're in love. And it's enough.


End file.
